I am starting to become nervous about my upcoming California adventure. While I'm flattered by the invitation, I must admit to being apprehensive about participating in an actual photo shoot. It is a good thing that Robby will be with me. I'm hoping that some of his cuteness rubs off!
Scott, sensing my trepidation, scheduled and surprised me with an appointment to get my hair colored. I was touched and appreciative of this thoughtful gesture. Despite my monthly attempts at coloring my hair, the shade always washes out to a dull terracotta. I certainly didn't want to go to California with orange hair. I definitely needed professional intervention.
I knew as soon as I walked into the salon that I was going to be out of my element. The stylists who work there consider themselves to be elite artists. The sparsely decorated environment is supposed to be "chic and hip," but as I was sitting there I couldn't help but think that it looked barren and boring.
Regardless of how I tried to hold my head high, I couldn't help but feel out of place. To make matters worse, I immediately felt that the ladies around me viewed me as an "outsider" and that I was somehow beneath them. I tried to say hello to the woman next to me only to be shushed by the shampoo girl. Apparently talking in this salon is frowned upon.
After what seemed like an eternity, my "colorist" finally approached me. "Hi Peggy. I'm Monica. My goodness, I can see that you are treating yourself to some nice color today. (She haphazardly tosses some of my hair.) This must be quite special." I was insulted her snooty tone and demeaning inferences. How dare she insinuate that I color my own hair, even though I do, and that I do not pamper myself, even though I don't!
I realized in this moment that I wasn't going to fit in with this clientele. I decided to stop trying to be sophisticated and to just start being Peggy. I spotted a bowl of Hershey Kisses on the table and grabbed a handful as I made my way to the coloring "suite."
Monica, with the help of a color "designer" worked to foil and paint my hair. It is a vulnerable feeling when your hair is in foil and your head smells from the chemicals. I felt ugly. They made no attempt to learn about me or to make small talk. Instead they spoke with the lady in the chair next to me who had just returned from a trip to Spain.
I learned all about her travels and the exotic food that she enjoyed. I felt like I should interject into the conversation. After all, although I am by no means a world traveler, I do have a few stamps on my passport. I listened diligently searching for the opportune moment to speak. I should have waited longer. Before I realized it, I heard the statement, "They have great chili dogs in Ohio" come out of my mouth. That ended the conversation.
After my hair was foiled I was ushered into another waiting area, this one more sparsely decorated than the previous one. I was happily munching on my chocolate kisses and sipping coffee when I decided that I may not fit in but that I was paying for the service and I was going to enjoy the experience. I grabbed another handful of chocolate.
I was approached by Monica, who checked the processing of my hair. She then knelt down and in a hushed tone asked if I wanted her to do something about my eyebrows. I immediately felt self-conscious and my eye lids became heavy under the weight of my apparently overgrown brows. I agreed to be waxed.
It wasn't until the hot wax was ripped off my brow that I realized that perhaps there was nothing obtrusive about my eyebrows. Perhaps Monica was just trying to play off my insecurities in order to bill for more services. The salon had a snobby air, but it was certainly not busy.
I knew, as the fabric swatch was being pulled off my face, that I was being played. In the same whispered tone, Monica asked if I would like her to "address my mustache." I told her that was fine, but to leave my beard alone. She made no more suggestions concerning my grooming.
I left the salon with beautifully colored and highlighted hair, waxed eye brows and a hairless upper lip. I also left with a handful of Hershey Kisses and two packs of peanut butter crackers tucked into my purse. I am pleased with the outcome of my hair although I admit that I would be hesitant to return to the salon. I have come to the conclusion that I am simply not an "elitist" person. However, my freshly dyed hair has boosted my self-confidence as I prepare for our big California adventure.
Robby and I leave for California on Sunday morning. To say that I'm nervous would be an understatement. I worry about the flight, in particular Robby's behavior. I worry about how Robby will react to staying in a hotel. I am hoping that Robby Rotten stays in Virginia and that the thrill of a new adventure will temper his demon wings.
I am nervous about meeting the expectations of the photographers. I am a Mom; I am not a model. I am hoping that they keep that in mind when I am being photographed.
Despite being scared silly, I am excited. I am going to make every effort to absorb the experience. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I want to soak in every moment. I will post a blog on Sunday after we land. Fingers crossed that I will be writing from our hotel room and not from an airport terminal where Robby Rotten was removed from the plane.
Scott, sensing my trepidation, scheduled and surprised me with an appointment to get my hair colored. I was touched and appreciative of this thoughtful gesture. Despite my monthly attempts at coloring my hair, the shade always washes out to a dull terracotta. I certainly didn't want to go to California with orange hair. I definitely needed professional intervention.
I knew as soon as I walked into the salon that I was going to be out of my element. The stylists who work there consider themselves to be elite artists. The sparsely decorated environment is supposed to be "chic and hip," but as I was sitting there I couldn't help but think that it looked barren and boring.
Regardless of how I tried to hold my head high, I couldn't help but feel out of place. To make matters worse, I immediately felt that the ladies around me viewed me as an "outsider" and that I was somehow beneath them. I tried to say hello to the woman next to me only to be shushed by the shampoo girl. Apparently talking in this salon is frowned upon.
After what seemed like an eternity, my "colorist" finally approached me. "Hi Peggy. I'm Monica. My goodness, I can see that you are treating yourself to some nice color today. (She haphazardly tosses some of my hair.) This must be quite special." I was insulted her snooty tone and demeaning inferences. How dare she insinuate that I color my own hair, even though I do, and that I do not pamper myself, even though I don't!
I realized in this moment that I wasn't going to fit in with this clientele. I decided to stop trying to be sophisticated and to just start being Peggy. I spotted a bowl of Hershey Kisses on the table and grabbed a handful as I made my way to the coloring "suite."
Monica, with the help of a color "designer" worked to foil and paint my hair. It is a vulnerable feeling when your hair is in foil and your head smells from the chemicals. I felt ugly. They made no attempt to learn about me or to make small talk. Instead they spoke with the lady in the chair next to me who had just returned from a trip to Spain.
I learned all about her travels and the exotic food that she enjoyed. I felt like I should interject into the conversation. After all, although I am by no means a world traveler, I do have a few stamps on my passport. I listened diligently searching for the opportune moment to speak. I should have waited longer. Before I realized it, I heard the statement, "They have great chili dogs in Ohio" come out of my mouth. That ended the conversation.
After my hair was foiled I was ushered into another waiting area, this one more sparsely decorated than the previous one. I was happily munching on my chocolate kisses and sipping coffee when I decided that I may not fit in but that I was paying for the service and I was going to enjoy the experience. I grabbed another handful of chocolate.
I was approached by Monica, who checked the processing of my hair. She then knelt down and in a hushed tone asked if I wanted her to do something about my eyebrows. I immediately felt self-conscious and my eye lids became heavy under the weight of my apparently overgrown brows. I agreed to be waxed.
It wasn't until the hot wax was ripped off my brow that I realized that perhaps there was nothing obtrusive about my eyebrows. Perhaps Monica was just trying to play off my insecurities in order to bill for more services. The salon had a snobby air, but it was certainly not busy.
I knew, as the fabric swatch was being pulled off my face, that I was being played. In the same whispered tone, Monica asked if I would like her to "address my mustache." I told her that was fine, but to leave my beard alone. She made no more suggestions concerning my grooming.
I left the salon with beautifully colored and highlighted hair, waxed eye brows and a hairless upper lip. I also left with a handful of Hershey Kisses and two packs of peanut butter crackers tucked into my purse. I am pleased with the outcome of my hair although I admit that I would be hesitant to return to the salon. I have come to the conclusion that I am simply not an "elitist" person. However, my freshly dyed hair has boosted my self-confidence as I prepare for our big California adventure.
Robby and I leave for California on Sunday morning. To say that I'm nervous would be an understatement. I worry about the flight, in particular Robby's behavior. I worry about how Robby will react to staying in a hotel. I am hoping that Robby Rotten stays in Virginia and that the thrill of a new adventure will temper his demon wings.
I am nervous about meeting the expectations of the photographers. I am a Mom; I am not a model. I am hoping that they keep that in mind when I am being photographed.
Despite being scared silly, I am excited. I am going to make every effort to absorb the experience. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I want to soak in every moment. I will post a blog on Sunday after we land. Fingers crossed that I will be writing from our hotel room and not from an airport terminal where Robby Rotten was removed from the plane.
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