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| Justin Hartley: It starts with hair envy. |
Alas, I can only deceive myself so much. I am certain the
post’s popularity has to do with this hot guy whose image I pasted.
(Sadly, my second most popular post is all about another hot man with
more of an appeal to news junkies and/or giggle aficionados. Makes me wonder if
I should give up writing and just post Google Images of himbos. But then there
are plenty of blogs that do that.)
Back to me. And my hair. In getting ready for L.A., I
planned things out so that I had an appointment for a cut and highlights one
hour after I finished work and began summer vacation. Shedding the duller, more
conservative school principal look is essential for me to feel a Southern
Californian vibe. As I’ve mentioned before, blond highlights used to come
naturally from days on the beach and by the pool. But I’ve paid the price for
that with skin cancer procedures—no new surgical removals in over a decade,
thank goodness—and now I have to fake it.
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| What I hoped for... |
I’d been seeing Angie as my stylist for six months and she
was competent if not a hair genie. I showed her some post-highlight photos from
my past as I detected a lack of confidence when I made the booking. Perhaps I
should have looked for another hairdresser but it takes time for me to build
trust. Finding the right stylist can be an exhausting endeavor.
The first indication that something was awry came as Angie
rinsed the gunk. “I’m just going to apply a glaze to even things out,” she
said. Logical interpretation: Things are
out of whack!
Fleeing was an urge, but not an option. Pinned against an
uncomfortable reclining chair, head dangling over an industrial sink, I did my
best to channel pro-glaze energy.
Back in front of the mirror, I got my first glimpse. Yes,
there was blond in the center but the sides seemed to have an orange hue. Could
it be the lighting? I kept calm and subtly pivoted my head. Clearly orange.
I eyed at Angie’s thick, curly mane. Orange. We weren’t
exactly twinsies but I had a patch match. I wanted to ask, “What color is your
hair?” Could a stylist be colorblind? Isn’t that an occupational disability?
And then came a stream of utterances that served as
confirmation that something had gone terribly wrong: “Are you coming back into
Vancouver before you head to L.A.?”; “I can try to fix this.”; and the
succinct, “I’m so sorry.”
The in-my-head responses: “No.”; “No!”; and “NOOO!”
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| What I got. |
Generally, I believe in allowing a person to right a wrong.
But not when it involves orangutan clumps on my head. I politely paid and
exited. On the ferry ride home, I stayed within the shelter of my car.
A glance in the mirror at home confirmed that things were as
bad as they seemed. I knew I needed expert advice so I emailed Ellie in Los
Angeles. “Who does your highlights? Can you get me in?”
The replay was instant. “I have the BEST highlight person in
LA. Danny at Byron's. Expensive but worth it.”
I read it and reread it. It served as an adult soothie. Yes,
it will get better.
A follow-up email told me that Danny was vacationing in
Greece, but Ellie had got me in on his first day back. This met with a mixed
reaction. I’d have to go a full two weeks with the hair quilt, but surely a
stylist who has ritzy vacations must be doing something right. And then,...why
did he have an opening on his first day back? Did I want to surrender my hair
to someone with jetlag? Still, I put my trust in Ellie. She has always had
impeccable style. And hair.
During the fortnight preceding the corrective action, I
imagined myself as a defiant Goth teen with a weighty nose earring, theatrical
corpse makeup and a pitbull named Mo. (Hoover didn’t once respond to his
substitute moniker.) Still the persona allowed me to wander in public, ignoring
any and all gasps of horror. (In truth, I didn’t hear a single gasp. Guess I
had the Goth attitude down.)
On the eve of my appointment, I Googled the salon. Beverly
Hills. Uh,...how expensive? Partial
highlights, $230; full highlights, $300. And, finally, a gasp. Eating is
overrated.
At the salon, an attractive receptionist told me to have a
seat and I pretended to read my novel while nervously anticipating treatment. Some
people get nervous before job interviews or blind dates; my worries are
triggered while waiting to meet a new stylist. Call it hair anxiety.
Danny emerged and I immediately babbled on about my
follicular nightmare. I’m not sure he believed it was a salon job. Several
times, he asked, “Who did this?” His facial reaction was the most honest I’d
seen—an understated version of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream”—, but then again,
I’d let down my Goth guard.
The color realignment took two hours, beginning with an
orange purge and then starting anew. Ellie happened to be in the salon as well
and I watched from the mirror to see four assistants gathered around her to
witness every brush stroke and snip. I only warranted one assistant even though
I was the bigger spectacle. I’m guessing everyone concluded that apparent home
dye job fixes are a rarity in a chi-chi Beverly Hills salon.
Not much of a talker—at least to a one-time client like
me—Danny politely gave me a rundown of his experiences in Prague, Berlin and on
Mykonos. No doubt, he was wishing he’d never left the island.
Danny’s assistant
regularly filled in as a succession of blonde women in the salon hugged and
kissed Danny, each one gushing about how great he looked. And I felt the pangs
of job envy. What I wouldn’t give for an insincere compliment—though, to be
fair, he really did look great. Perhaps if I worked there as a stylist, I’d
just receive standoffish parade waves. Even with the orangutan tamed and taken
away, I don’t improve in hotness just from wielding a pair of scissors.
Highlights—even good ones—can only do so much.
In the end, the blond was less than I’d wanted, but I’d seen
what happens when I ask for too much.
Before tipping, the bill came to $150. Not a snip, just a
color repair. A bargain from what I’d seen on the website. The fee was not an
issue at all. To have my smile back was totally worth it.
