When my children left on Saturday, I did something I'd never done before. I went to my friend's salon, and she cut and colored my hair.
Yes, I'd had my hair cut before, but never colored. Unless you count the time that my roommate in college colored it. And they called me Pippi Longstocking. But I'm pretty sure that doesn't count.
It was such a treat, partly because I just told her kind of what I wanted with my hair, and kind of what I want with my color. And I didn't have to explain to her that I think that combing my hair in the mornings is sometimes too much maintenance for me -- she already knew that. And the best part was that she was able to work with it. And she made me look like a million bucks. Because she just rocks like that.
The problem that all women know is that the stylist can make your hair do things it's never done before and that you CAN'T recreate. Even with all the same tools and product. Maybe because she can see the back of your head without breaking her neck. Or maybe because she was professionally trained.
So this morning, because I have time and no children, I attempted to recreate the head that I had on Saturday. And I started with the hairdryer, which was my first mistake, apparently. It exploded. Fortunately my hair was still very wet, otherwise I think it would have caught fire. Sparks came OUT of my hairdryer. And fire. And, because I'm brilliant, I tried to turn it back on. Not sure what I was thinking, but I'm not sure that I was, since I was just shooting fire at my head and then went back for more. It was dead (in retrospect, I'm really quite glad about that -- what was I going to do if it caught fire again, throw it in the bathtub?).
And my hair is not fabulous today. But the color looks good.