Getting A Wild Hair

Tonight I got my hair highlighted, which has become my 10-week ritual. I think it started back at the end of high school. And quite frankly, it’s depressing how mousey my hair is getting. Sigh.

But forunately I have a great colorist who makes me appear blond. I found her two years ago after a color mishap over the 4th of July in Kansas — where my hair was literally turned to patches of yellow straw. I was mortified. But Connie was able to fix it, and I’ve been indebted to her ever since.

That was definitely my worst color job ever. But the worst cut ever — well, that was even more traumatic.

Somehow or other during the first week of my freshman year in college, I got a certificate for a “free consultation” at the “hot” salon in Manhattan (Kansas, that is). Being that I was now wild and free and on my own, I decided to take the plunge and go see what they had to say.

Mind you, Mom had been cutting my hair for ages at this point. I’m sure I hadn’t had it professionally cut more than 10 times.

My first clue should’ve been that the guy that greeted me for the consultation looked like Jose Eber, except two feet taller and no cowboy hat. I think he was one of the owners.

He got super enthusiastic about giving me a very cutting edge doo. He said he do this. Do that. Voila!

I got so swept up in his drama that I just about stood up out of my chair to yell, “Yes!” (Think Herbal Essence.)

So he started cutting. And pretty soon, I had a shorter rendition of a layered 80s hair band mop on my head. He was looking very proud. I had to run out to cry.

This must have happened on the Thursday before Labor Day, because I clearly remember going to the farm the next day (where my parents were quite polite), and then on to the high school football game, where the boys were NOT polite.

Yes, it was hideous. There was nothing I could do to style it any differently. So the next day I cut it off, which is why I have short hair in all of my freshman photos.


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