Chunky Spice

Last week, exactly 7 days from today, I was victim of a horrendous crime. A personal foul if you will. It was something so terrible, so destructive that it's taken me a week to even write about it. Thinking back to how I felt last week still makes my eyes sting. My tale goes something like this...

I'm naturally a nasty mouse-y dirty blonde, but I pretend to be blonder by getting my hair highlighted. But last Thursday I noticed that my mouse-y roots were peeking out and decided that instead of spending $250 (I know!!) on my hair color every 2 months for the rest of eternity, I'll tone it back down to more of a blonder-reddish-brownish hue. For this drastic change I decided to head back to my staple hairdresser as she has done my hair since forever and knows my style - something I'd call modest and fun. One word I would never use to describe myself? Spicy.

I plopped down in the chair and asked for 'vibrant red lowlights' which to me meant 'tone down the blonde and add a pop of red' which I'm cool with. I've had my hair red a bunch (it's usually my 'i don't want to come back from Europe' rebellious act) and I've had red lowlights and highlights. Easy peasy nice and easy.

heck. no.

After having enough foils in my head to receive a strong radio signal and sitting under a dryer long enough to read two People magazines back to back, I flagged down my hairdresser to tell her the dryer shut-off about 15 minutes ago. When I touched a lock of hair that came loose from the foil, my finger turned a weird purple...

"Omg, did you dye my hair purple?" I jokingly asked... since my dye has always been more of a brown color.

She laughed. I laughed... but only for 4 more minutes.

As I walked back to my chair ready to check out the new 'fall hair' Kelly I gasped. Choked. And then started to silently sob.

There in the mirror wasn't a chic fall-ready Kelly.

There... in the mirror... was something I have equated to Chunky Spice.

You know what looks bad with an Oxford and Sperrys? That hair color.
You know what looks bad with pearls and JCrew cardigans? That hair color.
You know what looks best standing outside the Sad Cafe back in 8th grade smoking a forbidden cigarette and wearing pleather pants? That hair color.

I never understood how people on What Not to Wear and ANTM could cry at their hair. It's just hair right?

No. It's not. It's YOUR hair.

I resisted the urge to drive from the hairdresser to wal-mart and dye it back to a dark red or brown or black. Anything that would take away the circus tent on my head. But instead, I went home. Cried. Tried on 55 hats (one being the gigantic conical Asian hat I got in Beijing... that would help me blend in. I even tried my Guinness cap from Dublin..) and then planned to book a corrective appointment the next day. Hair be damned, I'd rather have it fall out from over-coloring than walk around like a sun-burnt zebra for more than 24 hrs.

The next day I counted down the hours to my 4:30 appointment at a reputable salon and tried as much as possible to hide in my office and cover up my garish locks. I rushed out of my office early at 4 (which meant I would be late to the appointment) and sped as fast as I could to my savior.  In traffic, I took this one other photo to document the worst day of my life.

Note the worry in my face and the ugly red hair framing that worry.

You'd think my tale ended there? But no... it continues.

After pulling off the highway with another 10 minutes to the hair dresser and only 8 on my clock, I noticed my gas light was on and my pointer-thingy was almost going back around.

Here I was, trying to not show society what people would think I willingly did to my hair, but desperately terrified my car would die enroute to the salon and then I'd miss my appointment AND have more people see the haircut.

Eff it. I stopped to get gas.

I'm a courteous person. If I notice people are in a rush in line, I let them go ahead. If they have screaming children, less items, or just seem busy, I let them step ahead. Karma Kelly.

So here I am trying to get gas and I pull up to the one pump that won't read my card. I run in and I see a line of two people. Thinking that what goes around comes around and I'm in a rush, I very very very very nicely tapped the old lady in front of me.

"I'm late for a very important appointment M'am," I say. "Would you mind letting me hop in front of you?"

She stares at me, looks me up and down, stops at my hair for a bit longer than I'd like, mumbles and steps aside. As I run my card, thank her profusely, and dash out of the gas station I hear the crazy lady mutter "stupid punk kids" as if my hair meant I was punk.

Guess what I would never ever call myself?

Punk.


I made it to the appointment. She spent 2.5 hours trying to figure out the massacre that sat atop my head, and ended up making me beautiful once more. After thanking her profusely, hugging her and offering her my first born, I left no longer striped, but just casually highlighted.

What did I learn from this? Trust no one.

And always bring a picture.