There’s nothing that makes a recovering flu-victim feel better than a trip to the hair stylist. Having been struck down in bed for almost two weeks with the flu (and saddled with a sick six-year-old home from school), I couldn’t wait a minute longer to get my gray covered.
This morning was a dream. Liam didn’t have a temperature so that meant I could finally drop his 1st grade ass at school, hit the gym (which hasn’t seen my ever-expanding ass in two weeks), leisurely shower, dress and drive myself to the SALLon.
Usually I like to chit chat my way through the process of having my hair colored, but I was in such culture shock of being out of the house that I just sat there starring off into space, letting Angelique paint and foil, paint and foil.
“Magazine,” she offered? “No thanks,” I replied, as I studied the industrial style exposed pipes on the ceiling.
Upon emerging from my catatonic state about two hours later, my hair was laquered, shiny, bouncy and lovely. Unfortunately, my hair party was over and it was time for carpool pick up. When Liam hopped into the car, he said he didn’t recognize me. (Note to self: Need to visit Angelique more often.)
While it seemed forever since I had my hair touched up, it was actually a shorter time span than ever. I recently came to that point in life when you realize you can’t stretch your hair color appointments out for as long as you once did. What used to be seven or eight weeks has whittled down to five. (When I do the math, it’s about $700 more a year.)
Part of me feels like I should be doing something more important with that money than spending it on hair dye. My kids could use a new computer. That money could go toward more piano lessons for Ella. Summer camp is never too far away. Or I could be a nice wife and fix the hatch crack in Craig’s Ford Explorer (which EVERY Ford Explorer hatch has. It’s true. Check ‘em out on the road.) Then I start thinking about how I begin to resemble Pauly from “The Sopranos” after week 6 and I quickly shake myself out of it.