Worst Haircut Ever

I needed a boost after that legal bill, so I decided to book a haircut in order to prolong my summer hair that so well replicated my daughter's reddish blond highlights. I googled the salon I went to last time and called and set an appointment for yesterday noon, a good time for a break in a long day of work. After arriving on time, I announced myself, only to find that I had inadvertently made an appointment at another location, but they booked me in at 1:00 pm. I went off to buy a Timmy's and shop for A. By 1:00 pm, I was back, slightly anxious about time, but anxious for a change. I tried to explain what I wanted, but didn't get far. Two stylists began conferring about colours above my head, then my stylist began a frantic painting of papers, getting advice and encouragement from the other. This made me nervous. It seemed my stylist had no real experience with highlights and needed direction. Sure enough, by the time she rinsed my hair out a couple of hours later, I was convinced of that. I had brassy orange chunks of colour strung through my dark hair. She was discussing the haircut she planned for me when I interrupted saying, "I'm sorry, I'm distracted by the colour. It isn't exactly what I was expecting. I wanted something more subtle."

That didn't go over well.

"What don't you like about it?"

I hesitated, "Well, it isn't like the last time I'd had highlights, they seemed more subdued. I don't like the strong contrast, I guess. Do you have the colour you used last time on file?"

My stylist disappeared and reappeared with the other one. He was offended. "Work with us here, okay? Do you want us to fix this?"

"If you can."

"What do you want?"

"Well, this isn't as . . . "

"Do you want me to just blend in brown here, thin it out?"

"Okay," I said. That might work. I sounded dubious, I guess. "But what about the condition of my hair," I added, stupidly. I pointed to the fuzzy orange strands, "It looks fried."

The second stylist rolled his eyes, "That's not fried," he said. "I'm a senior stylist here. I know hair." He grabbed a third stylist and pointed to my hair, "Is that fried?"

The third stylist frowned at my hair and said nothing.

Then the second stylist grabbed the third stylist and dragged him into the back room.

The second stylist returned, followed by the third stylist, the first had obviously taken off, who knows where? The second stylist was pissy. He flung my hair in my face and repainted brown over the other highlights. He was in a rush, he told the third, he had a 4:00 o'clock. The third stylist said he'd help. That's how I ended up with him, Zed, explaining that it may not be the hair I wanted, but it was all going to be okay.

An hour and a half later, it really wasn't, but what could I do? I paid, I tipped, I left, because that was all I really wanted at that point, just to escape. I'd been at the mall for five-and-a-half hours. I'd missed meeting E at my place, I'd lost valuable hours available for work, and my lovely summer hair was reduced to an overprocessed brown frizz.

Worst Haircut Ever. Or that I can remember now, anyway.