My writing attempts this week have been less successful than the rollout of ObamaCare.
I’ve tried sitting at the keyboard, writing outside with my clipboard, writing from the heart, writing with my head…Somewhere about five words in everything goes to shit. Kind of like today.
Started out bright and early by backing my truck into the neighbors BMW. Good morning, mam! Got to work job 1 where my dog puked not once, but twice, on the carpet of the owner’s house.
Got a facial for my first time yesterday, let’s just say it didn’t “work.” I’m now a walking cry for ProActive. Did I mention that I’m going to Argentina tomorrow for my best friend’s wedding?
In preparation for the wedding I scheduled a hair appointment at a salon advertised on GroupOn. DO NOT ATTEMPT. Pulling up to the salon was the first sign of danger. The establishment was along a string of worn down convenience stores, with plenty of parking spaces. This was not a desired destination.
Not wanting to judge a building by its cover, I walked in anyway. After all, how bad could it be? Pretty bad.
One old lady was sitting at a chair in a room of empty stations. Very hesitantly I said, ”I think I have a 1:00 appointment?”
Even though I wanted her to say “nope,” she said, “yup.” And before I knew it I was sitting down with foils in my hair for highlights and a bucket of bleach next to crazy lady and me. For the first ten minutes a man stood above me yelling in Greek at the lady mutilating my hair. Finally she said in English, “I want no trouble.” I’m not kidding; I thought this dude was about to pull out a gun. I had already thought about dying in a salon with old crazy scissor hands.
Fortunately, the man left. She finished my hair. I cried, a lot. This woman put streaks like a skunk on my head, seriously, the stripes were almost white. The foil job she did was crap, too, so the solution ran and dripped throughout my hair leaving spots like a cheetah’s.
I got out of there before she could comb or blow-dry or kill me, and ran into my house when I got home to assess the damage by brushing through the disgustingness. As I brushed, to my horror, I realized that my hair was coming out. MY HAIR WAS FALLING OUT. This woman over-processed my hair and used bleach to such extremes that my fucking hair started to fall out, aka breaking everywhere.
Did I mention I’m flying to Argentina tomorrow?
In a slight hysteria I got back into my truck, made sure I wouldn’t hit anyone (again) and drove one million miles per hour to the most expensive hair salon nearby. I have to admit, it was worth every penny. They told me not to cry, which didn’t really help because I was already pondering what color and style wig to buy. Instead, the women and a man went to work using toner, and this and that, and yadda, and I look okay. It actually came out pretty well. My hair had to be dyed almost brown to cover the zebra/cheetah thing I had going on, and I lost half a head of hair, but I have a lot, so that’s okay.
At least I’m sober. Sigh.