Hair-Don't

Have I mentioned yet that I currently have orange hair? Not intentionally, of course. Here is how it happened.
A couple of weeks ago my mom and I were scheduled for appointments with our hairdresser of the past 8 years. She works at the Dillards salon in McAllen. A good drive for my mom and I, but since McAllen is the shopping Mecca for the Rio Grande Valley, we were hyped up. We arrived a couple of hours early and polished off some shopping. Our appointments were at 3:30pm. Mom went up first since I had to make a water bottle run for the nearest vending machine. A snotty receptionist informed her that our hairdresser was running a little late and it would be another 30 to 45 mins. Since our hairdresser does usually run late, we weren't concerned. Mom went back out into the mall to kill some time and I arrived shortly thereafter. Since my mom had already phoned and alerted me, I knew what was up but I was tired and broke, so sitting in the salon lounge seemed like the best thing to do. I approached the front counter and I was met by the same bitchy receptionist, but she didn't faze me. I informed her that I was aware that my hairdresser was running late and I would sit down and wait. She didn't respond. I didn't wait for her to. I walked around the corner, picked up a magazine and plopped down. I don't know how long I was sitting there looking at the glossy pages of a Vogue magazine, but my mom eventually showed up again and plopped down across from me. At 4:30pm she was beginning to look irritated. I still hadnt quite finished the Vogue as I kept turning back to marvel at Gisele re-enacting famous paintings with Gerard Depardieu (did I spell that right?). Okay so my mom was getting pissed and then another customer shows up to wait for another hairdresser. She sits down and the receptionist and another girl approach her, apologize for the wait and offer her something to drink and a free hand massage. Keep in mind, she had barely arrived and my mom and I had been waiting for an hour. So the two girls whisk off the Queen of Sheba for her free hand massage and complimentary iced coke and I have finally finished examining Natalie Portman's new hair do. I put the magazine down, look over at my mom and there is literally steam puffing out of her ears. We were then approached by the same girl that offered the free hand massage to the Queen of Sheba to compensate for her 2 minute wait. She asked us if we were waiting for Joaquin. My mom said no, we weren't. She apologized and turned on her heel. What the....?!? Do only JOAQUIN'S clients get offered hand massages and free drinks?! I must have had a good hit of Paxcil the night before because I still wasnt irate. My mom, however, was fuming by this point. Needless to say, she stormed out with me trailing along behind her.
My sister showed up looking for us at about 5:00pm. Our hairdresser was still working on her previous client, something about being double booked (not her fault but not ours either) so my sister calls us, gets the scoop, and let our hairdresser know that we left. Angry. After much apologizing on her part and a scathing letter about our treatment by the reception staff was emailed to the store manager (the salon manager who was there at the time was too busy getting her nails done to be of any help), we agreed to try it again on Friday night. We couldnt get over there until 6:30pm and we both needed highlights so we knew we were running against time. My mom got hooked up first and then me. Now let us remember that the Baptism of my youngest child was set for the following morning. I had a snazzy new outfit and I was determined that my hair should look spectacular. No more 3 inch roots for me!
Unfortunately my hair is a very deep dark brown and highlighting usually takes a good amount of time. I sat under the dryer with my hair chunked into mini foil tacquitos. And waited. And waited. And waited some more. Finally my hairdresser declares that all looks good but the store is closing and there will be no time for a trim. My heart sinks even as I grit my teeth. I plead for just a bang trim. She agrees that can be done. Then I am reclined into the sink and the foil tacquitos are gently extracted. The new receptionist informs us that security has stated that they are locking the doors in 5 mins. With or without us. BASTARDS! It was then that I heard my hairdresser murmur..."Cece, it bled a little. Just a little. But there is no time to fix it. You can come back?" I look into the hand mirror at my soaking wet, streaked hair. I proclaim..."That? Thats nothing! Looks great. No one will even notice!" And I'm thinking..."Get me out of here. No time for error. Cut my bangs and make me look presentable for the LOVE OF GOD."
Quick snip of the bangs later, I am scurrying out of the maintenance door with my hair still dripping. It wasn't until later that night, after my hair had dried that I realized it was FUCKING ORANGE ON TOP. SWEET VIRGIN MARY how am I supposed to enter the House of God tomorrow with ORANGE HAIR?! And cussing?! Somebody wash my mouth out with soap, please. And while youre at it...FIX MY FREAKING ORANGE HAIR.
I kept waking up that night, miserable that I would take gads of pictures with my pristine white disco-suited baptised baby and me with ORANGE HAIR. Finally at about 4a.m. I chided myself...if Dooce can walk around with Septic Tank Poopy Red hair and survive...so too could I walk around with Bathroom Stall Vomit Orange hair and survive.
I believe it was then that I realized...I'm a Dooce freak.