I'm a natural goth in winter. Fair skin, brownie-black hair, and chains practically dripping off my emaciated body. Okay, maybe not that last part. Nevertheless, it was time for a change.
I made an appointment with the local beauty school. They've never had the fortune of my patronage, but I remember that neon "$4.95 Haircuts" sign from my childhood. I asked the front desk lady for highlights, and I got them. Three and a half hours later. (Seriously, people! Does it truly take that long to get your hair colored?)
Ines, my very young hairdresser, was a definite newbie. When I sat down at her humble hair station, I asked what color would most compliment my skin. Her response was a look of horror, followed by, "Urg, let me get a second opinion."
While Ines put the bleach on my hair, she whimpered, "I hate coloring hair. I try to avoid it whenever I can." Thanks, Ines. Maybe you should consider a different profession. Her teacher would periodically come by, critiquing and offering suggestions. Ines complained, "Jenny, will you stop? It's creepy! Creepy!!" I just sat silently, wondering when I would be released from this chemically-imbalanced hell-hole.
Two excruciating hours later, Ines left me for awhile to let the color set. "Would you like a magazine, Louis?" Groan.
"I'd love a magazine." My bottom was getting sore, and something to read would take my mind off it.
She returned with a copy of Women and Cancer.
Anyway, here's the finished product. Something fun, something different, something I won't do again any time soon.