where the writers are

I got some uncertain, but not great medical news today (the appearance of my optic nerve indicates possible glaucoma. Or I could just have a weird-looking optic nerve....) which was worrisome, at the very least. My eyes have given me some of the greatest joys of my life and my sight would be the last of my abilities I would want to lose. So I was upset and my response to it was to be utterly consumed by a desperate need to get my hair cut and colored. It's not the first time this has happened to me. Lets just say that, depending whether I was in or out of love, my hair has gone up/down/up/down like a Tressy doll's.

So I went to a hair salon I'd gone to before, but the woman who had cut my hair was no longer there. I must have looked so crestfallen and/or wild-eyed that the receptionist said, "But there's another salon down the road that's good." I said, "So, it's really good? Really?" She said, "Oh, yeah, it's great! My mom goes there." Now, my dear readers, you will have immediately heard the clang of the warning bell; "My mom goes there." Danger, danger Will Robinson! But, like a junkie in need of her fix, I ignored it and soon found myself pulling in to a strip mall so desolate that it looked like the apocalypse had long since come and gone. Nevertheless, I got out of the car and walked into the promisingly named "House of Style." Of course, they didn't say WHAT style....
The Style-istas were Vito and Sharon. Vito was a guy with a paunch, a lot of chest hair with sparkles of gold chain peeping through, and a loud shirt. And he was not gay. I should have turned and fled right then and there. Sharon, who was to impart style upon me, was what you call a big gal; she was tall and "big boned" and big chested and big haired and big everything else. There was just a shole lot of Sharon and a whole lot of make up on top of that. Well, I was in such a state that even Vito and Sharon didn't deter me because, damn it! the crisis of my shaggy, roots-showing hair MUST be dealt with immediately! So Sharon, with her big hair, took me to the chair. I - the woman who never uses hair products - sat passively while she cut, colored, used a curling iron, hair gel, and even hair spray. And when she was done, this is what I looked like:
(photo from MsBlueSky)
You know, the eighties were a pretty good hair decade for me. I avoided the greatest excesses of the disco dos and overall looked pretty cute. But that was a few decades, a few kids, and a few pounds ago. Imagine me, today, with a hot stack of 80s hair, wearing old-lady-who-just-had-cataract-surgery disposable wraparound sunglasses (because they'd dilated my pupils) strutting out of the House of Style. It was a sight, and not a good one. When I got home I washed the product out of my hair and, by the time my kids got home from school, I was just me again. But for a little while, I looked like an AARP disco diva, and, all in all, I must say it distracted and cheered me. Sometimes a girl just needs hair therapy and it really doesn't matter where it comes from.