Wednesday, July 27, 2011


Listen, I hate going on and on about my hair, but I'm compelled to tell you the final chapter, because I need to make a point of something. Bear (bare?) with me.

I went back to that salon for a do-over. I just couldn't TAKE IT anymore, is the gist of it. I talked to the manager and described why I was unhappy with my chunks (sounds like vomit, right?) and she (quite reluctantly, mind you) told me I could come back to have it fixed. After some arranging so as NOT to bring my children to the salon with me, I tucked my damaged skirt into my purse two days later and headed over. I wanted to have it on me just in case I needed a back-up plan. I was worried about the potential for a scenario involving them being all eye-rolly or all pay-more-money-y and I'd yank out my $15 Target skirt as if it were the smoking gun that would condemn them all into silence and apology. (After I pointed out the little smidge of brown near the hemline, of course. It's kind of hard to notice.)

Anyway, when I got to the salon, the manager wasn't there and I learned that the stylist, Delores, had come in on her day off of work to make things right.

Well, shit. I mean, that's a nice thing to do, isn't it?

Instantly, I was filled with self-doubt and remorse. Why had I made such a big deal out of this?! I glanced in my purse to make sure my skirt wasn't visible. (Why the heck did I BRING that thing anyway?) And then, sitting in that chair, my hair didn't even  look THAT bad anymore, and OMG WHAT HAVE I DONE.

Somehow, I managed to gather myself enough to narrowly avoid getting a third color put into my hair to "subdue the blonde chunks." Instead, I just told her to dye it brown. (I mean, it came out black almost, but it's technically still brown. I'm trying hard not to be picky, here. Again. I mean she's TRYING to help me, right? Shouldn't I be appreciative?!)

When Delores was finished, it looked decidedly better than it did before, and that's what matters, right? I thanked her as I left and it took my everything not to tip her. For your troubles, you know? (And, no, I cannot post another picture lest you all tell me it looks worse because then I'll have to pull out an ACTUAL smoking gun and things will get really complicated between us.)

When I came home my husband took a look at my head and his face wrinkled with confusion.

Him: What happened? It's...dark.

Me: Eh, I just told her to dye it all brown. You know...brown-ish? I give up.

Him: So you're not going back there, then, right?

Me: [Dramatic sigh] Oh, I don't KNOOOWWWW, she was really niiiicee. [Dramatic slump into kitchen chair followed by dramatic dropping of my freshly raven head onto the dining room table, all topped off with another dramatic groan.]

Him: ...

I have this thing, you see. (I mean, I have lots of things, but let's stay focused.) This thing with nice people. If I'm in the position of being unsatisfied by someone nice (that sounds bad, but it isn't, so STOP IT), I find it nearly impossible to confront that person. It's not even that I'm necessarily a nice person! Seriously! I've been WAY mean PLENTY of times, and I'm pretty good at it! So it's not that I'm too's just that I can't make nice people feel badly. Or, I prefer not to. At all costs. Even if it means destroying my hair.

I mean, it's just hair, right? And $150? Plus a $15 dress? And four hours out of my life? And time out of work for my husband to watch the kids?

But you get my point, right?

Then there was yesterday, when we had a technician from Direct TV come to install our satellite and hook up the boxes. After much poor communication and many covert glances between my husband and I, and the ultimate conclusion that this guy was a total fucking moron, Leonard the technician ended up drilling holes through our walls without permission. But not pretty, round, professionally drilled holes. No. These things resembled the type of opening a prisoner might create with a plastic spoon over the course of several years while slowly slipping into insanity. We didn't notice this, of course, until after Leonard left. My husband and I were dumbfounded and disappointed. I mean, this was our brand new house! What the hell was this dude thinking? This really NICE, stupid dude!

When the company called the next day with some customer service satisfaction questions, I was disappointed there wasn't a number to express my well-yeah-he-sucked-but-I-really-like-him-as-a-person feelings. I ended up having to talk to a representative to explain myself. She seemed very confused.

Her: So you don't want him to come back to your house?

Me: Well, am I getting him in trouble? I don't want him to come back if he's you understand?

Her: ...I don't...

Me: Plus, I mean, is it even in his job description to spackle?


Me: I mean, he was so polite, it's just that he kind of put these ridiculous holes in our walls and...I...sheesh...I dunno...

Her: ...ahhh...please hold...

I could just hang a picture over the hole, you know. I mean, it's down by the baseboards, but I could make it work. It's just a wall, right? That's nothing in the grand scheme of things! Poor Leonard is working in 100+ Texas heat, and I'm going to bitch about some drywall? And the fact that I have no idea how to fix it? And that my husband will probably be stuck with the work order? Even though he has worked two weeks in a row without a day off? And we're on the Dave Ramsey financial diet and WE HAVEN'T BUDGETED FOR SPACKLE YOU GUYS?!

I'm sure he won't mind. He'd do it for Leonard...right?

Oh, and there's also this issue with a dress I ordered for BlogHer off of eBay. It's super cute, and I'm certain it will therefore transform ME into something super cute. But the thing is that it was popular two years ago, so it's not really sold anymore, and I had to buy it from someone named Georgia in China. (Probably because it's no longer fashionable, but let's not go down that road.)

Anyway, I'm fairly certain the dress is now being quarantined in China.

Even though the lady promised me it would be here by Saturday. And that I told her I didn't want it unless it did get here by then because I never really go out anyway, and what the hell would I do with an overpriced, outdated cute-as-hell dress if not wear it to California to meet a bunch of strangers?

And as disappointed as I am, resigned to the fate of my silly dress, all I can think about is how accommodating and professional Georgia was in her emails. And how badly she'll feel when she realizes it's not going to make it in time. Surely she'll be beating herself up about it. I certainly can't call her out on it! What good would that do? And she lives in fucking CHINA, guys. What kind of monster would give her a bad rating on eBay?! This is her livelihood in a deeply restrictive country! What if she gets fired?! I can't have that on my head of over-processed hair!

Let me tell you. It is EXHAUSTING being so fucking nice. Or, at least, not-mean to nice people.

Anyway, if you're at BlogHer, I'll be the naked woman standing in the corner. In honor of Georgia from China. (And a head of frizzy hair in honor of Delores. And a restricted budget in honor of Leonard.)



PS: Have you entered for a chance to win a custom blog design? There are few entries and the contest ends in two days. Go! Quickly! Or slowly. Whichever.