Hair Today, Hair Tomorrow

A few days ago, I looked in the mirror and much to my surprise the reflection I saw looked very much like a guest on the Jerry Springer show except I still have all my teeth. I was shocked. "How the hell did I let myself get so... so... so skanky?" I wondered. My hair was long, about 2 inches from my waist. It was ratty and dry and bleached out with nice, dark roots at the top. You can't get much more trailer trash than that. I looked like bloody hell. Something had to be done.

After taking a quick glance at my children's education funds, I decided to mortgage the house and called the most expensive hair salon on this tiny little Polynesian island. A sweet young thing with a voice about as thin as I imagined her size two ass to be answered.

"Would you like to make an appointment?" she asked.

"Yes, I need help with my hair. It's out of control. I think it's trying to get me on a talk show against my will. I need professional help from the likes of anyone but Dr. Phil or Sally Jesse Raphael. Who've you got?"

"Ummmm... Well, what kind of service do you need?"

"I need to be restored to my previous self. The one that didn't have baby fat but wore Baby Phat. The one without the roots longer than the book. The one that was cool and chic and sassy. Do you offer that service?"

My request was met with dead silence.

"Book me with your best coloring expert, please," I whimpered.

My appointment was tonight. Upon walking in, I felt immediately better... and worse. Kind of like going to the ER when you are sick. You know they are going to make it better, but just seeing all those white coats and IV drips suddenly makes your ailment that much more acute. My Barbie-like stylist was sweet, funny, cute and bubbly, and ultra thin and sexy. Reminded me a little of Heather BC (before children). Oh, how I miss that Heather.

All the fashionably clad, perfectly trendy and coiffed beauty experts snipping away at their stylish and wealthy, Vogue-reading clients provided a stark contrast to me, the frumpy, fat housewife in a size 16 Old Navy skort and a five dollar Hanes vee neck tshirt. I could only have been more out of place if I'd been sporting a mullet and a Van Halen concert shirt.

Anyway, she held out a little scrap of material that is intended to serve as a cover up smock. I put it on, but it didn't cover me up. My girls and my gut are just a bit too big for a cover up at a chi-chi salon. The rich tend to be thin apparently. Then we sat down and she started to work on my hair.

I tell you, there is something with the lighting in those places that makes you look so much worse while you are in the chair than you did when you came in. It's a conspiracy, I'm sure, to get you to buy all their styling products and let them transform your hair into their works of art. I know after looking at myself with that dumb cape buckled up under my triple chin I would have agreed to an orange mohawk if the stylist told me she thought it would bring out my cheekbones and shave off ten years from my face.

She didn't ask to do a mohawk, though. She did wonderful job. My hair is back to a normal, much more natural shade. My head feels so much lighter after having six inches of hair hacked off that I came home and weighed myself (no change on the scale, though, sadly). Of course, transformation of this caliber doesn't come cheaply. To the tune of 150 American dollars, my wallet lost some serious weight tonight. And my stylist (and for that price, she ain't no mere beautician or hair dresser, let me tell ya) told me I should come back to see her every three months. That's a whopping 600 bucks a year!

But as I run my fingers through my silky hair, I know it's better to look good than to send your kids to college. Hell, I'd love it if they just went to beauty school. They could keep me in blonde highlights and ash lowlights without the ridiculous capes or deceptive lighting. And with the money I save I'll get myself a tummy tuck and a subscription to Cosmo.