A couple of years ago, I visited Coolest Family Ever in Utah for Christmas. Coolest Sister-In-Law Ever was finishing up her residency at cosmetology school and I scheduled myself for a cut and color. There is no one on earth I would rather have cut my hair than Coolest SIL Ever. She has given me the ONLY cuts that I've actively liked rather than just "Eh, it'll do." (It may also have to do with her words of encouragement. "Andrea, you have to style it. You can't just roll out of bed and expect it to look good." But anyway...)
We're finishing up the process and it's time to rinse the color out. I guess it had been a particularly busy day and the school and, with the exception of one other stylist and her client, we were the last ones to leave. Apparently, the high traffic of the day in combination with the arctic temperatures outside had depleted the hot water supply in the building. Did I mention it was December? Did I mention the freezing temperatures? Did I mention that the water and the aforementioned lack of hotness thereof was going to be applied to my SCALP? Did I mention I had no choice if I didn't want to walk around dripping haircolor?
In the words of Sheldon Cooper upon finding himself in Bozeman, Montana: That is a bracing cold, an invigorating cold. Wow, is it cold!
The serious injury of having my frostbite on my scalp was lessened to a small degree by the delicious shampoo which accompanied the washing. (Joico, I think it was?) It was lessened to an even further degree when we heard the following exchange from the only other people still at the school:
Stylist: Oh... uh... wow.
Client: How does it look?
Stylist: Uhhh... I'm not even sure how I did that.
Client: How does it... wait, what?
Stylist: It's uhhh... I'm so sorry...
Client: Let me see!
Stylist: *turn the chair to face the mirror*
Client: OH MY G*D!!!
Stylist: I just... I just don't know how... what went wrong... I mean, I've never, ever.... I don't even know how it...
Client: I HAVE A DATE TONIGHT!!
Stylist: Really? I just... I can't really redo it... it's too late now... and I'm not even sure how... what...
Now you can't overhear a conversation like this and not at least try to look at the train wreck. But we didn't want to be obvious. So CSILE and I craned our necks, stretch our arms, and acted like I was inspecting my (perfect, btw) new do in the mirror while actually trying to peek around.
I only caught a glimpse but it seemed to be a hot mess of black and gray and lavender. Like this, only... not.
Stylist: I'm so sorry. I can try to fix it tomorrow.
Client: I'm going to have to cancel my date.
That seemed a little extreme to me. I think showing up on a date with totally whacked out hair (provided it wasn't your fault) would be an excellent conversation starter. What's better that a first date story that you tell your grandkids that starts out with, "So I accidentally dyed my hair purple the day your grandpa and I met..."
Or just wear a hat. It is December. In Utah. Something my scalp will never forgive nor forget.