Sunday, December 27, 2009


"A lady who colors her hair knows when her roots are showing and makes an appointment with her stylist."

I love having my hair done, all the foils, the trashy magazines, the gossip at Vanity Junkie and leaving with Brigitte Bardot hair is always a welcome experience. If I didn't limit myself by way of a hair budget, I'd spend a lot of time and money. Sometimes, however, I'm not a very good planner. Three weeks before I went to Spain I tried to get an appointment with my usual (AND FABULOUS) stylist, but she was completely booked. A friend of mine suggested a salon, so I went. I left with fine hair. When I got back from Spain, I had a coupon from the new salon... and so the coupon dictated. I left with HIDEOUS, HIDEOUS color. It looked like four week grow out straight out of the salon, so I called my usual stylist to see if she had any time for an emergency appointment. She was booked solid for the next three weeks. (Did I mention she's very good?) So, I went to Yelp to try to find someone. I went in for my appointment with this new person and she made me WAY too blonde to cover up the hideous disaster of the previous week. As I left that appointment I realized I had just spent all of the rest of the money I would allow myself for the rest of the year. I immediately called my usual stylist and set an appointment for January 5 (why yes this was three months ago). For about three weeks my hair has been past the point of decent root length, so taking a page out of the Carrie Bradshaw handbook, I've been wearing my hair curly, or wearing hats. I am very excited about my appointment on the 5th.

Why did I tell you all this junk that you don't care about? Because you needed the back story before you heard the anecdote.

On Christmas Eve, much against my own good judgment, I went to my grandparents' house for the annual gathering. The first words out of a certain Christmas letter writer's mouth were not, "Merry Christmas." (as mine were to her) or even, "Hello." instead it was, "What is going on with your hair?" said with a tone to imply that I had ketchup smeared all over my head, or was wearing a pink flamingo lawn ornament as a headpiece. "Um, what?" was the answer I mustered, and she then said, "Are you letting your hair grow out, or what?" "I'm trying to save some money. I have an appointment next week." Later when she opened the printer my brother and I gave her, she thanked my brother about ten times, then my dear uncle said, "and Molly..." and she said nothing.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have grandparents that actually liked me, or were at least kind, but then who would I make fun of on my blog? Oh, that's right...countless strangers.

I would like to thank all of you for judging me and my tacky roots in silence. I appreciate it!


Melinda said...

That's hilarious! Sometimes I get similar comments from my own mother. Perhaps it's perfectionist thing.

deanna said...

If I say I have regrowth, I feel a little less tacky than if I say my roots are grown out. Silly but maybe, just maybe, it'll work for you too.