It is summer and the hair must go! In the past few years I have not been one to let my hair down, as I haven’t had any that could be put up. I also have not let my hair grow to any length. Under the advice, persuasion or perhaps threat from a dear friend of mine, I let it grow this past winter. It grew. It got ugly. It got hot. I cut the hair. I wasn’t sure I was going to do so until that stupid Avatar showed up on my screen.
You all know what an avatar is, right? An avatar is an electronic image that is supposed to be representative of the person using it. People take digital body parts of what they think they look like in their mind but not in reality, put them together, and voila’, they have been created digitally. I stumbled on one yesterday and being that I already had an appointment to get my hair done, I decided I wanted my hair to look like the hair in this particular Avatar.
The hair was short. Cute. Not hot. Highlighted. And made this particular Avatar look 30 years younger than me, without wrinkles, and about 120 pounds. You would have to take 120 pounds, add my age to it, the months of my children’s births, the number of dogs I have owned in my life to get close to my real weight. (Yes, I know loyal blog readers that I have been on a diet, but trust me, it’s not working as fast as I would like it to.) Anyway, I printed a copy of the Avatar, tucked it into my purse and off to my faithful hairdresser Rachelle.
Rachelle, probably the only hairdresser with job security as long as I remain her client, loved the Avatar. Away she went. Cut the hair. Pull it through a frosting cap (and no, that is not a cap made of chocolate icing.) She was going to put low lights in the hair to contrast the natural blonde hair. After 20 minutes of the smelly stuff on my head, she rinsed it off. Horror! Horror! Horror! The color was a dreadful, mousy, ashen color. It would never do.
After rinsing and drying the hair, with the frosting cap still on, Rachelle decided to make the highlighted hair a deep auburn to make sure we got a bit of red on the hair. She mixed up another batch of dreadful goop, brushed it on the hair with a paint brush, and let me sit for another 20 minutes. When she was sure it was done she rinsed off the 2nd batch of goop. She pulled the frosting cap off this time, sure in her knowledge that the hair would be Avatar beautiful. It was not a horror this time. It also was not dark. It was not auburn. And it definitely was not red. It was my natural shade of blonde.
These combined processes had consumed 2 hours of our time. I was frustrated. Rachelle was cussing. The hair was not cooperating with my vision of the Avatar hair I wanted.
Rachelle and I decided the hell with the attempts at low lights and decided to bleach the hell out of strands of hair to give it some sort of highlights. She made me don another frosting cap. She snatched and pulled hair through the cap. She mixed up a third batch of goop, this time it consisted of bleach and who knows what. It’s a secret recipe. She painted the strands of hair sticking out of the cap, put a plastic salad bag on my head and put me under the dryer to cook.
I cooked. The bleach frothed. The hair hid. Rachelle cut someone else’s hair while we waited for the glorious Avatar hair to appear. 3 and ½ hours after we began the process, Rachelle once again rinsed the hair. Removed the cap. Shampooed the hair. Never said a word. She toweled the hair and sent me to the cutting chair. I removed the towel, but kept my doubt. I didn’t see any white. I didn’t see any highlights. I didn’t see Avatar hair.
Rachelle rushed over and suggested we dry the hair before we throw any towels, in or otherwise. She dried the hair. Snipped it. Cut it with scissors missing huge chunks of their cutting edges. Trimmed. Dried. Styled. All the while professing she didn’t know why the hair was not white. She didn’t know why after all these chemicals the hair was still on my head. She didn’t know why we weren’t at the bar drinking margaritas. It was after all Cinco de Mayo.
I kept glancing at the Avatar and wondered where I had gone wrong. Could it have been my choice of hairstylists? Could it have been my choice of days? Could it have been my choice not to drink before I had my hair done? Could it have been that no one looks like an Avatar?
There seemed to be nothing to do but say What The Hell. Leave the hair to the hair Gods. Head to the bar. And curse the unnatural Avatar with the unnatural hair. People try so hard to make their Avatars look like who they are or want to be. I tried to do it in reverse and look like the Avatar. Don’t try it. It’s not worth the goop, lost time, curse words, and hairstylist. I’m sure I’ll have to look for a new stylist the next time I want or need my hair done. Rachelle is checking herself in to the local mental health facility. Last seen Rachelle was mumbling something to the staff about Avatars. The staff didn’t understand. But then, neither do I. I’m just keeping my mouth shut.