This week, I once again found myself sitting in the hair stylist’s chair covered with enough aluminum foil to safely reenter the earth’s atmosphere. It’s a ritual I perform reluctantly and only when I find that I am too often being mistaken for a Chia Pet or the fifth Beatle.
I dread these beautification outings because the outcome is so unpredictable. I am what you might call a hair-care orphan. The moment I establish a relationship with someone who demonstrates a modicum of competence, they suddenly relocate their practice to some foreign country — like Texas — and I am left to find and test the talents of a new salon professional.