Since turning into a human chia pet thank you to all my extra estrogen I have not been able to keep up with my hair. Every month my roots show up and in four months grow to be almost an inch long. Normally this would kill me. Thanks to preggo fatigue, working 45 plus hours a week and nesting by behind off the root patrol has taken a back seat.
I usually do my own hair. My hair is a beast. It doesn’t do what it is suppose to do. I have been through dozens of hair stylist and have tried to explain that my hair doesn’t listen. I am usually met with a polite smile and reassurance that they know what they are doing and listen as they rave over their own talent compared to other hair stylist. Then when they are blowing out and styling my hair their egos are fried when they see that everything I warned them of ended up happening.
Over years of watching them fry, dye, bleach and tone my hair figured it all out. Problem is I have A LOT of hair. More
now than I ever have. Doing my own hair has turned into an almost impossible feat and I couldn’t bear the thought of tackling it myself this go round.
I was well past due for a touch up. My touch up was quickly turning into a much needed overhaul. I told Kevin one day I just didn’t think I could do it and I was going to go to get my hair done because I couldn’t take it anymore.
A couple of nights later Kevin surprised me saying that he set up an appointment for me to go get my hair highlighted. He said I needed to be pampered and let someone else do the work for once. I figured since I was just getting my roots highlighted nothing THAT bad could happen. Wrong.
I made my way to the salon and here is the description I gave to the hairstylist: classic, golden blonde highlights, think Reese Witherspoon, Faith Hill or Carrie Underwood.
Now let me ask you this, did you hear black stripes anywhere in that description? No.
Imagine my surprise when my feisty little stylist spun my chair around to show me my new “fierce” hair style. White blonde streaks paired with black stripes.
I am a coward when it comes to confronting situations like this. I don’t complain when my food is made wrong. I don’t freak out when someone cuts me off on the road. I don’t ever want to make a scene. Really when it comes down to it I basically have a phobia of these kinds of situations. Thank goodness for pregnancy hormones because not only did I see black stripes but I saw red.
Seeing I didn’t have the OMFG reaction that my stylist thought I would have to my new emo-riffic look (because I was not THIRTEEN years old) he asked “what do you think, isn’t it fierce?” He then started to fluff and tease my hair as if it made it better. Teasing out the stripes just enhanced the bride of Frankenstein look.
My response. “If I was a teenage Avril Lavigne wannabe I am sure this would be great, but I am not. I am going to be a mom!”
It was already past 9pm, I was the last person in the salon and the other stylist and his boyfriend all watched as I broke down.
He offered to fix it but the thought of sitting in that chair for another 3 hours with him telling me I he disapproved of me getting an epidural or signing to Brittany Spears new album was worse than walking out with the black stripes.
I met up with Kevin after my appointment nearly in tears. Luckily I am married to the best man alive and all he said after seeing my face was “whatever you need to do we will do.”
We drove to the nearest 24 hour pharmacy. I briskly waddled to the hair dye aisle and picked up all the tools I needed and checked out.
We made it home after 10 and I spent the next 3 hours picking the black stripes out of my hair and smothering them in bleach all while making sure none of it touched my scalp…even though they say hair dye or high lighting is ok during pregnancy I am still a little (a lot) bit of a nut about it.
After blow drying my hair somewhere around 2 in the morning I was crushed to see my once golden blonde hair now strawberry shortcake blonde. I was part ginger. All of the black stripes turned strawberry blonde. I had no choice but to go to bed, wake up at 6am go to work and make a trip the beauty supply store after work.
Feeling like a bloated manatee, on no sleep with a bad dye job does not make for a good day. After a long day at work I made my way to stock up yet again and attack my hair. Luckily all I needed was a toner and a deep breath.
I don’t know if it was the hormones that made me think some random stylist could help me. Maybe it was just pain fatigue paired with the wishful thinking that I could sit and have them work their magic over my hair so I didn’t have to.
So word to the wise pregnant women, somewhere in the third trimester realize your “mother knows best” gene hasn’t exactly gone full term yet and to listen to your gut not whatever pregnant whim crosses your mind. The third trimester not only faded the pain of my salon horror stories but has also made me think half an economy sized bag of peanut butter m&m’s was a good lunch choice. They aren’t always dead on.
Moral of the story. Pregnancy will make you do crazy things. So cut up your credit cards, hide the stylist number and m&m’s or prepare to suffer the consequences.
PS – consequences are a lot worse pregnant.