I went and got a haircut today, and decided that while I was there, I was going to get my color lightened up a little bit. It always looks a little bit darker after the winter, and since my last round of highlights has pretty much grown out, lately it seems to have settled into this beige-ish, blond-ish, brown-ish, ashy-looking mess. So this was it. I went in with my dorky picture-printed-off-the-internet in hand, presented it to the stylist and said, “Here. I want to look like this 17-year-old, 100-pounds-soaking-wet, teenage musical star. Make it so.” When she was finished laughing hysterically, she got out her little Magical Book of Dye Jobs and got to work.
When she was finished, it didn’t exactly look like the picture I’d shown her (the color *or* the cut), but it was an improvement over what used to be and I was tired of sitting in the chair, so I thanked her, paid and left. In the salon, my hair did at least look to be a few shades lighter than it had been before, and had a much warmer tone to it.
Fast forward to this evening. I walked past my bedroom mirror and thought, “Uh…why does my hair look so dark? It didn’t look this dark in the salon. Hmm…maybe it’s just the light in here, but it really looks kinda…uh…no…it couldn’t be…” I went out to the kitchen and started to unload the dishwasher. Megan walked into the room, took one look at me, stopped in her tracks and asked, “Why is your hair red?” That’s a darned good question, considering I’d asked for blonde. And it had looked blonde when I left the salon. Now…I’m not so sure.