A few weeks ago, I entered a contest sponsored by CAbi. The 4 winners selected were to be flown to Los Angeles for a whirlwind makeover, and then they would appear in the CAbi Fall Lookbook catalogue. I was one of the 4 winners. This week I will be reporting on my adventure.
The first order of business was to discuss my roots with the colorist. He was very complimentary of the color (not including the grey and mystery color of my natural hair). And he was rather shocked when I told him I did it in the privacy of my own bathroom. Loreal, have I told you lately that I love you?
He decided to stay in the same blonde family, to touch up the roots, and then additional highlights using foil. I was secretly thrilled, because change? I am not a fan of you. I sat in the chair enjoying the sensation of a trip to a beauty salon to get my hair highlighted. I believe the last time I experienced this bliss was before Jensen was born. Mitch kept me entertained by offering up the names of celebrities that he’s worked on, such as Kim Bassinger and Faith Hill (squeeee!). Something I am not privy to in the beauty parlors of our small 3-horse town. When I finished cooking, and even when wet, I could tell that the color would be beautiful.
Then it was on to the cut. The stylist was a french fellow who looked to be highly artsy fartsy. Which struck fear in my heart. He too was in possession of a sense of humor, and suggested that I go super short. I had visions of Kate Gosselin’s angryhair in my head, and nearly ran for the exit.
He then calmed my fears and listened to my ideas. I told him that I did not want anything drastic, and wanted my hair to touch my shoulders. I also told him that my hair goes postal in the Florida humidity, so typically, layers will give me what I can only describe as witch’s hair. I also reminded him that I was a middle aged housewife who still had to frequent Wal Mart to do the weekly shopping.
He sighed, in a way that only a French artist can, and began describing what he’d like to do. And frankly, he sold me on it. Perhaps it was the French accent. He may well have been telling me that corn rows were the way to go for me, and I would have nodded my head in agreement.
He first dried, and then straightened my hair prior to cutting. Using a straightening iron that VIBRATED as he used it. I quizzed him he worked, and he explained why cutting dry hair is best. You can see exactly what you’re getting as you go. Only he used flowery french words. Made sense to me. And when I asked him about the straightening iron, and if I was in danger of electrocution, he explained that it is a new fangled contraption that causes NO DAMAGE to the hair. Only he didn’t use the word fangled. Or contraption. I asked him where I could purchase such an amazing straightener. He said that I couldn’t because it’s not on the market yet. He is evidently a very well connected French man.
He began his work at the back of my head, out of my view. But since he was playing the soothing sounds of Jose Feliciano on his stereo iPod, I was mellowing out. He lifted my hair up into the air and randomly snipped away with scissors so sharp I feared for his fingers. There was some layering to my hair, but it is so subtle that even I will be able to style it using my own beloved Chi. (The pictures are clickable, if like me you’ve misplaced your reading glasses, or if you’d like a closer look.)
I nearly cried when he finished. Tears of joy. It was exactly the cut I’ve always wanted, but have never been able to convey to any known hair stylist in our area. Even when I’ve come clutching a picture torn out of a magazine.
I asked him if he made house calls. In Florida. (Because seriously, WHO AM I GOING TO FIND TO DO THIS IN THE SUNSHINE STATE?) He smiled, and in his best French accent he said, “For a price.” Swoon.
A really good hair cut was just what the doctor ordered. Put a little giddy-up in my girdle. I am SASSY. Just wait until tomorrow when you see that MAKE UP is my friend.