CMYK IIThe Tonksification is complete — I now have pink hair.
First of all, it's kind of dark pink. I'd call it "magenta," but my friend and fellow graphic designer, Lorel, says I don't understand what magenta is. And, lest you wonder, my whole head is not completely pink. It's more like there are big streaks of "magenta" in the front, and one maverick streak in the back that I have to style forward or else it looks like an accident.
When I arrived at the salon, all of the employees looked at me in great anticipation. I go to a salon that caters to an older, stylistically conservative clientele. My stylist had done punky color before, but it had been a few years. So before coloring my actual hair, she ordered a mannequin head with synthetic hair and tried out a few varieties of pink. I stopped by the salon Thursday to choose which hue I preferred.
So, today, the first thing one of the other stylists asked me was "Is today the day you're going pink?"
Elaine explained that just about all the stylists had had a hand in determining how best to make my hair the very best shade of pink possible — so everyone was invested in the outcome.
So, she sat me in the chair. I have naturally brown hair, and I've had big blonde streaks for about three years (except for a few months during which my entire head was burgundy). To start, Elaine brightened up my blonde streaks so the pink dye would have something to which to adhere.
After about an hour of foiling and dryer-time, she washed out my hair and sat me in the chair for the application of the dye. I learned that stylists use cholesterol (like the stuff in your blood — ew!) to smooth down the rest of the hair and make it impervious to the dye. "It's like lanolin," Elaine explained. That didn't make it much better.
Then, on with the plum-colored dye and off to twenty minutes under the dryer.
Elaine washed out the excess dye and let me have a peek. "Hello, new me."
After a new cut, styling tips (it's humid here, so my perpetually straight hair has been flatter than ever) and a take-home bottle of mousse (plus an appointment for a touch-up in a month), I was ready to face the world as a sweet-faced punk-haired over-zealous
Potter fan.
My first stop was the bakery below my apartment to buy my weekly $1 loaf of bread.
Then it was off to the grocery for weekly essentials like lunch meat, pistachios and tea. I garnered a few odd glances from other shoppers, but nothing out of the ordinary.
After stowing my groceries in the fridge at home, I felt like reading
Macbeth. (It's been awhile since I've had a Saturday to myself, and for whatever reason I felt like spending some time with Shakespeare.) So I ran off to my local bookstore.
After some searching, I found
Macbeth (which is proving to be quite riveting), then remembered my dad likes Thomas L. Friedman from the
New York Times and perhaps he'd like his new book,
The World Is Flat for Father's Day.
(I'm banking on the assumption that my father does not read my blog. Otherwise: "Hi, Dad. Act surprised. About the hair. And the book. Okay?")
Anyhow. So, wandering into the history/politics section, an older guy already browsing there put his hands up and looked sideways at me.
"What's up?" I asked.
"I don't want any trouble," he said.
I raised an eyebrow. "I'm looking for a book," I said. "No trouble."
He backed slowly away.
After about twenty minutes of fruitless searching, a friendly employee asked if I needed help.
"Yes," said the pink-haired freak. "I'm looking for Thomas Friedman's 'The World is Flat.'"
I'm sure that's not at all what he was expecting.
By the way…By the way, thanks to new blogging friend
Heto, I've become rather obsessed with
this. I must admit considerable hubris in assuming that my career as a graphic designer and typeface connoisseur would give me an edge. It didn't.
