Thus commenced Great Hair Repair 2006: Having found the F-Tubes to call my hairdresser and tell him I didn’t like looking like a Crayola, I went to Salon E. to give this relationship one more try.
I came in early (I believe in maximizing "mommy’s alone time" by showing up early to all appointments– especially those offering eat, drink, and celebrity magazines) and began leafing through the sorrow & tragedy of Anna Nicole’s kid’s death.
I waved warmly to Patrick, the Gay God of Sassy Hair, who was busy finishing with another customer. As I watched him chat with the woman in his chair, it slowly dawned on me.
I know this woman.
Holy hell! She’s my nasty nemesis from Henland and here I am with this bad red hair looking like an idiot reading through People chomping away on a mint.
So I did what any self-actualized girl does — I panicked, hid in the alley, and called SuperFriend to come save me. Lucky for me, SuperFriend works around the corner from Salon E. and due to her genius at design, owns her own business and had a spare moment to fly over to rescue her girlfriend in distress.
Donning a cheerful smile and sassy gauchos (a clothing choice that sets off fashion alarms when I even *look* at them) SuperFriend very casually found her way over to me (the one with horrid hair madly waving and jumping up and down next to the smelly recycling bin). When I apologized for interrupting her day, she reassured. "Don’t worry, I do things like this all the time for my sister."
Huh? I have brothers. They’re good for offers of ninja attacks on bad boyfriends, but not for comforting one in an alleyway where one is hiding from a nasty ex-coworker while sporting crayola red hair.
She watched out until the mean mean lady left the salon. Patrick immediately called wondering where I’d gone… "Um… Rachael? You were in here a minute ago. Where did you go?" Thinking quickly I mumbled something mysterious about the kids, bid adieu to SF, and leaped quickly into the safety of the now-empty salon.
And so he fixed my hair. It’s still red, just less punk. I’m more like Strawberry Shortcake all grown up and less like… Ronald.
Many thanks & future candle-lit shrines to SuperFriend, who obviously knows all about girls like me.