Marilyn Manson Called. He Wants His Hair Dye Back…

September 8, 2011

in Blame The Sudafed, Cheap Expectations, I Learn the Lessons So You Don't Have To

There are many thing which I lost in our move to Maine this summer:

My toothbrush.

My stylist.

My sanity.

And while, sure, the Little Man tends to give me the side-eye whenever I start singing out loud before I’ve turned the radio on, the thing I miss the most is not my sanity.

It’s my stylist.

Do you know how hard it is to find a good stylist?  One who understands that when you say you want to go back to your natural color, you really mean just a shad lighter with a few more golden highlights – not your actual natural color, which resembles more of a muddy mouse than golden honey.  Or that when you say you want bangs, you don’t mean Actual bangs.  Just side pieces short enough to pretend they are bangs, but long enough so you can just tuck them behind your ear.  And that when you say you want to go short, you don’t actually mean it.

Heather understood that.

She understood me.  AND my hair.

She knows that it soaks up hair color like a camel.  And that its thicker on the left side.  And, that, despite knowing this, I still insist on parting it on the right.  Just in case there wasn’t enough volume on the left to begin with.

What she doesn’t know?  Is how close I came to kidnapping her and dragging her out to the wilds of Maine in my suitcase.

Although she totally would have fit. 

Not that I measured or anything…

Because finding the perfect stylist?  Is about as easy as finding the perfect toothbrush.

Which is to say, damn near impossible.

And so, I’ve been searching.  For over two months now, I’ve researched every local salon within a 10mile radius on Google.  I’ve asked random women in Target where they get their hair cut.  And I’ve used one of those online internet programs to determine what my hair would look like if I just let it grow unattended to for the next year…

So when the Big Man called to say he had an unexpected  3hour break in the middle of his day, I may or may not have hung up on him in my hurry to call my #1 salon pick and beg for an appointment.

Apparently, I have excellent taste in salons.

Along with the rest of the state of Maine.

Which is probably why they kindly let me know that they could absolutely fit me in.  In two weeks.

Time for Plan B.

aka.  The salon in the sketchy part of town.  That may or may not be a refurbished KuickKuts.  And Definitely had an immediate opening.  Or ten.

But whatever, it’s backed by a national name!  And it has an opening!  This month!

I took it.

Which, in hindsight, was probably not the best call…

I know.  129 of my closest friends and family have been discussing this all day on Facebook.  It’s not the worst cut ever.  But…

My hair line?  Is not normally gray.

Nor are my temples.

And in case you were wondering?  Black?  Is NOT a good color on me.  At least not on my head.  I can rock a little black dress as well as the next non-New-Yorker.  But its usually best if the ensemble ends at my neckline.


This is the look I was going for.

Minus the grown-out roots.  And 9months pregnant pudge.

A bit more stylish mom, a bit less Goth Girl. Circa 1998.

Did I mention the good salon in town has a 2 week wait?

Time for Plan C.

In which I strip the color from my hair myself…

And audition for the part of Little Orphan Annie.

Stay tuned, kids, stay tuned…


Marcie November 1, 2011 at 9:51 pm

Eeek! Sorry, girl! Picking a new stylist in a new town would totally suck!

Sabrina September 13, 2011 at 2:45 pm

OMG nightmare. Instead of me leaving my stylists, my stylists keep leaving me. One moved from kind of far from my house to over an hour each way without traffic so we had to break up (after I did that drive several times I might add). My latest favorite just decided to go on a religions mission trip for 6 months and find himself (which if you saw him, was the most shocking thing ever as he is covered head to toe in tatoos and piercings and is in a death metal band). So now I have to start over. Feeling your pain.

Domesticated Gal September 22, 2011 at 7:08 am

Oh dear. I have to say that your hair relationships would make great fodder for the next blockbuster romantic comedy! Maybe you should get the next one to swear an oath never to move and/or have an existential crisis mid-shampoo?

NSC September 8, 2011 at 12:00 pm

Why thank you! (blushes) I swear…my MIL and I are the same person in different bodies. Kind of creepy, but kind of awesome too.

NSC September 8, 2011 at 10:10 am

I don’t trust anyone. I ALWAYS dye myself, and then I have noone to blame. Also, I’m too cheap to do it professionally. :)
I have had so many “stylists” screw up my hair top the point of tears that I now have my MIL cut my hair (she is a barber) and if I want anything spiffy done, I bring a picture with. I envy you, having at least one person understand your hair in your life. Noone has ever understood my hair, or my constant dilemma of long or short.

Domesticated Gal September 8, 2011 at 11:57 am

I used to do my own. Until I royally screwed it up one day and turned it black. Seeking professional help? Was supposed to keep this from ever happening again…

But you? Are a brave woman. Letting your MIL cut your hair. That’s a true sign that she likes you!

liz September 8, 2011 at 8:12 am

omg! too funny in a sad sad way. i’m so sorry about your hair!

Domesticated Gal September 8, 2011 at 8:16 am

What’s really sad is that this? Is the Second time in my life this has happened. Except the first time I was the one to screw up the dye job, and had a professional fix it. Apparently, I? Am now the professional.

Which is scary, on so many many levels.

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