While still in the closet (not staying I swear) I chose a suitable pair of 2” black pumps. I will need to shine those up before Monday. They still have the red mud from I have no idea where. I just know the last time I wore them, I was out
Back in the living room, I went through pertinent paperwork to take to my interview, such as my resume, list of references, library card, shot record, mammography reading, grocery list and map of Vegas stars’ homes. All of a sudden it hit me….my hair was too freaking Gray! I needed a color job and I needed one fast! So I kissed the cat and pet the girlfriend and ran out the door and down the stairs like a bat outta hell. Then, I realized I needed my keys. And my purse. And my shoes. And my phone. And my teeth (just kidding! I swear) I
I made it to the salon and put my name on the list for my hairdresser, Gwen. Gwen is a miracle worker. Gwen performs magic. Gwen is a virtual hair whisperer. I can go in the door with gray and huge curly lumps of hair (on my head. She only works on heads) and I can leave with gorgeous brown sleek locks befitting the sassy and sexy grandma that I am. Yea, Gwen is the bomb.
So Gwen called me up to the counter and just kinda stared at my head. She said, “Haven’t been here in a while, have ya?”
“Terri. The name is Terri.” I tried to help her remember. If she’d just let me tip her with a French kiss like I did all my past hairdressers’, then the bitch would remember me. But she stared at me quizzically.
“What do you want done today, Terri?” she really didn’t know me. How could she not know me? I’d given her some of the best split-ends of my life. I was crushed.
“I need a trim and a coloring and an eyebrow wax please. I believe you have my color code in the computer?” Just wanted to make sure. I like brown. Not black. Not red. Not blond. Not green. Brown please.
“I don’t see it. What’s your phone number, Terri?” Huh?
“It’s 555-0098” (not really. Please don't try to call this number. You will only get the National Sub-Committee for the Eradication of Erectile Dysfunction. I hear they're really busy with an election year just around the corner.)
“Nope. I don’t see you in here. Let’s make you a file. It’ll just take a minute”.
So she made my file and then she took me back and put me in her chair. Then she disappeared for lunch or jury duty or something, because she didn’t come back for a long time. But when she did come back, she was pushing a little cart with bowls of color and little cotton balls and clips. It almost looked like lunch but not. I was a little hungry.
She began coloring my hair and chatting up a storm the way she normally did before. Then she said, “OK I’m going to leave the coloring on for 45 minutes and then I will come back to ‘pull you through’. “ I was kinda proud that I already knew what she was talking about since she’d ‘pulled me through’ on previous occasions. (I have blogged about it. Read it here if you dare.)
It’s not near as fun as it sounds……or as it could be, with a little imagination.
Sure enough, Gwen returned after 45 minutes and after she woke me up and I wiped the drool from my face, she commenced to ‘pulling me through’. When finished, she left again for another 20 minutes. I was going to go back to sleep but this little kid in the chair next to me was staring at me in almost horror. I fought the urge to say, “Boo!” but saw his Mommy was nearby and she did not seem amused.
Gwen finally reappeared and took me to rinse the color out and began trimming my hair. She started combing through it and suddenly got this sick look on her face. She almost looked like she was going to throw up on my fancy cover-up thingy she’d carefully placed around my shoulders earlier. She was staring in the mirror at my head. I looked in the mirror, too. Oh lordy, lordy, I almost fell off my well-padded ass. There before me sat a 57 year old Hoochie Mama. My hair was dark brown, with big streaks of orange/red running through. I had to blink a couple times in case my contacts were in backwards or something. Nope. Hoochie Mama, I was, indeed.
Just put me in a leopard-skin mini skirt, stand me on the corner, and I’d be the oldest five dollar hooker in Vegas.
I was not happy.
Gwen was mortified.
I looked at Gwen.
Gwen looked at me.
Gwen looked away. I think her eyes hurt from the glare.
I actually felt pretty badly for Gwen because her whole demeanor changed. She looked beaten. She looked like the world had just crashed down upon her.
“Gwen”, I offered, albeit feebly, “It’s not THAT bad…..really.” I lied. I Iied because I am a nice person and I can’t stand to see someone upset. Gwen was upset. “I’m sorry Gwen.” What the hell was I apologizing for? But I was. “It’s not your fault. I’m sure the chemicals must have been bad.”
Not her fault, my ass!
Bottom line, she mixed up another batch of color, this time with Ash in it to offset the Hoochie Red. It turned out very nicely. It took 3.5 hours. I was hungry. She was irritable. That’s 3.5 hours neither one of us can ever get back.
I don’t have a moral to this story. I’m too damned tired. I still have to shave my legs, remove the various hairs from my chin, find some pantyhose without holes in them, and polish up my interviewing answers to the standard questions we all know and hate.
Monday. 11 a.m. interview. I sure hope all the above was worth it.
Pray for me. Or chant. Or cross fingers. Good vibes and a little luck and hopefully, I’m in.
Film at eleven……….no make that Tuesday. I should know by then.
(Image by Google Images)