My hair hadn’t been washed since Tuesday. The thought of standing in the bathroom for the whole blow-dry-style-thing was daunting. And what’s the point of looking cute from the neck up when I’m walking like the hunched over witch who gave Snow White the poisoned apple?
To complement my unwashed hair, I had a good inch of trailer-trash roots and a strong measure of shiny greys popping up in the partline and along my temple. I swear, the stress of my back pain turned a clump of my hair grey right at the temple where my bangs swoosh over.
Lucky for me, I had a hair appointment for Saturday that I fully intended on keeping, regardless of my lack of mobility. It’s a little shop with close-to-the-door parking so it didn’t pose a big challenge.
However, I did not have the foresight to foresee the challenge of how the stylist was going to wash the color out of my hair once it was applied. As I’ve said, I can’t lie back. At all. So how did I ever think I was going to get my head into the shampoo bowl? Again, I blame the drugs for clouding my thinking.
Again, lucky for me, my hair stylist volunteers at a nursing home, so she had a solution that she learned from some of her old folks. It was all very classy, In an up-on-all-fours-bending-over-into-the-sink kinda classy way. In an openish area.
Dignity? I miss you. But my hair looks great.
*taken by my Mac while sitting outdoors on my little patio Saturday. Where I saw that I have a tomato plant that I’ve forgotten about and hadn’t been watered in at least five days. I’m sorry little plant. It has two little tomatoes budding on the vine. I gave it a healthy drink, but still worry that it was too little, too late.