By about 20 mintues into the foils, I suspected something was going terribly wrong. When she was still foiling after an hour, she got another girl to start on the other side. (This was for the "few around my face.")
Somwhere in the back of my head, I heard a little voice say, What happens when two artists share one canvas?
Then I felt the new girl smashing the foils into my head, and I had a whisp of memory of my hair-dresser neighbor telling me, "You never want to push down on a foil--it will leave blobs of bleach. "
Again, that voice in my head, This can't end well.
It took 4 hours.
Even with it dripping wet, I could see the tiger stripes. In a very calm voice, I express my concern. She says, "If the highlights are too bright, we can put a little toner on it."
"Do that."
After the toner, I still have my doubts, but I'm late picking up Nancy from school. I decide to let it dry and be optimistic.
No amount of optimism can overcome the truth of the situation.
When Nancy sees me, she asks, "Isn't your book club tonight? . . .So, what are you going to do? . . ." Tactfully, she dodges the actual words.
I run Nancy to the DMV to get her driver's license (moment of silence, please!), then run back to pick up the little girls from school.
Lizzy is more direct: "Oh my gosh! Mom, what happened to your hair? Did you WANT it black and orange?" Joanne adds to the shock. We ruminate for a moment on Halloween hair.
In the car, I look more closely and realize that in spite of the tiger stripes and white spots, I can still see grey. Incredible! I think and think and rack my brain for what on earth they could possibly have done to make it worse?
I go back to get Nancy at the DMV, sign away my life and all future earnings so that she can drive. (The nice lady informs me that at any time I may come in and "revoke that signature which will, in turn, revoke Nancy's license," thereby irrevocably terminating our relationship. But nice to know. Thanks.)
We head straight back to the high school for her lacrosse practice where I drop her off. I return (having been gone since 10:30 this morning) to the salon. My hair is completely dry at this point--no discussion required. "How about an all-over dark brown?"
My hair is now a very standard, not to mention thrashed-to-high-heaven, dark brown. My scalp is tender and I smell like a chemical spill.
No, I did not take a picture.
(If you think I've exaggerated any part of this, talk to Lizzy.)
