Because we are yet to land “proper” jobs that will net us enough money to live comfortably in San Fran, we are on a tight budget. This has been interesting, in an academic sort of way, because neither of us have had to worry too much about budgeting for the past four or five years and we are starting to realize just how incredibly lucky we’ve been. On a practical level, it’s a pain in the ass because every time we want to go to the movies, or buy takeaways for dinner, we have to think about it. That dash of spontaneity enjoyed by professional childless couples is not something we experience too often. Still, there are plenty of free/cheap things to do in the city, so it’s not like we’re bored, and we’re eating well, we’ve managed to furnish the apartment, and I have discovered several fab consignment stores, so really we’re fine. But my hair is a disaster.
Last week, despairing at my scraggly, multicolored mop – untouched by a professional’s hands for nine months and dry as kindling after three at-home dye jobs – I decided to bite the bullet. I handed over $15 to a nice woman with not a lot of English in a clean, comfortable salon in Fillmore Street, home of West Coast jazz. It’s a groovy little neighborhood; we do our laundry there. I throw a couple loads in the machines, sink my quarters into the slots, and bounce out onto the street to window shop.
My favorite consignment store is in Fillmore St. Treasure to date: two pairs of fancypants jeans, a pistachio colored merino sweater, a groovy little fox necklace, and a pair of gorgeous Donna Karan heels topped with feathers and diamantes. (I needed some dressy shoes for a Waitangi Day party at the Golden Gate Yacht Club.) So Fillmore St is a happy place for me.
Anyhoo, about 25 minutes after I walked into the salon with my scraggly nonsense of a hairstyle I walked out with a poorly layered bob – still multicolored cos they don’t do permanent dye jobs at this salon, for some reason that is not clear to me because of the language barrier. I like the length but the layers are so thick they hang together like worms and stick out at eccentric angles. There is no subtlety to the cut. When I pull my hair into a ponytail it looks like a toilet brush. And when I blow dry it and use my velcro rollers, to give it some volume and disguise the layers, it looks like one of those flouncy crocheted toilet roll covers beloved by old ladies and people from the South. I have toilet hair.
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2 comments:
This made me laugh!! I feel your grief ... In the last 6 months, I have got considerably more grey. While for boys, this adds a distinguished touch yet for girls, it really does spell the beginning of the end. More so when you're a dark and enhanced blonde and the little blighters still appear enmass to make you look ten years older!! I can't believe it. Not married. No kids and yet more grey hair than both of these life changing events should have generated. Even the recently converted non-boyfriend who had spent the last 6 months of non-boyfriendom telling me that I was worrying about nothing commented the week after he'd converted in the direction of proper boyfriend status that I really did have a cluster coming on! - and he has the marriage and the kid to justify any that he might have! My only defence was that he was much closer to 40 than me! With £60 in hand and to the bottle I head! Sadly it is going to get worse before it gets better.
Cheeky so-and-so! My boy used to pluck the grey hairs from my head until it got to the point that there was so much to pluck I couldn't sit still long enough.
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