This past Monday was, as far as I could tell, the last official day of summer. I decided to take advantage of this sad occasion by going for one final swim in my Aunt's apartment complex pool, a pool I had been dipping in like it was my own all summer long. Everything was fantastic -- until I got out of the pool and realized that my platinum blonde hair had turned a nasty, swampy green. Luckily, this all happened after the wedding I was in the weekend before, where I managed to Bridget Jones it up plenty without the help of an embarrassing hair situation.
I didn't call my hairstylist immediately, because I didn't want to ruin her holiday weekend, but I didn't have a clue what in the hell I was going to do. This was like the time in high school when I used Kool-Aid to dye my hair, and it turned my head into a bushel of orange straw. But I was fifteen then, not on the verge of 31. I couldn't walk around like this. I had to look at my options.
Could I be that girl who wears wigs but doesn't have a medical condition? No way. A woman who has hair and wears a wig is like a person who uses a fake accent all the time -- it fools no one but themselves. Plus, it is annoying as fuck, because that person begins to think everyone believes its real, when in reality, people just think, "that girl sounds like a total idiot." Same applies to nonessential wig wearers.
As I waited out the call to my hairdressing savior, Courtney at The Parlour, I thought, why not do one of those online makeovers, where you can try on different hairstyles virtually? Then I could at least have an idea of what I could make out of the mossy devastation. A quick google search brought me a place called Taaz.com, which I trusted immediately because it was named after my favorite Looney Tunes character. (I almost got a tattoo of Taz fist-pumping that said "Party Time," in homage to the greatest tattoo of all time that I once saw on the arm of a man at Waterworld in 2002. But that's a story for another day.)
Man, was Taaz the place to be! By simply uploading a picture of myself, I could try on the looks of Mary J. Blige, Anna Farris, Christina Aguilera and pretty much any figure in pop culture that my little heart desired. I didn't follow the rules, exactly, and as you can see from the photos, I left my green hair down, so it still made an appearance in all of my fancy computer images. But I didn't care. It didn't stop me from imagining myself as the inglorious Tori Spelling or Lady Gaga. Except, as you can see from my Gaga look, I really just came out resembling Bruce Vilanch.
After several "looks" I decided that I was just going to do what I always do and trust Courtney. If you have ever found a good hairstylist, you know that you can never, ever let them go. Because, while a large part of the population seems to go to cosmetology school at some point in life, only a small percentage of them are good at what they do. And if you know one of these saints, you know that post-beauty school apprenticing takes years, and the only people who do more career-oriented training than stylists are doctors. Which is exactly why I may be uninsured, but I sure as hell don't walk this earth without seeing my Courtney every four to six weeks.
Of course, she worked her magic, and my hair looks like it never took that fateful plunge into a four-foot deep pit of follicle torment. She didn't even have to cut it -- she's that good. I am back to my natural state of wannabe Gwen Stefani blonde, ready to push my suitcases off the cliff of life tomorrow when I turn 31.
If you have a hairstylist, hug them tight and never let them go. Beg them to never leave you, because you will always need your stylist more than they will ever need you.
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