A Hairy Tale
When we first moved to Toronto, one of the hardest things to find was a good hairdresser. As women, we develop a relationship with our hairdresser that is very personal and very trusting. Would you trust your husband to cut your hair? I doubt it. Mister is never allowed near my hair again. Oh yeah, I did something bad folks… really bad.
You see, I had just started maternity leave and my hairdresser that I had grown to love was way the hell downtown. With a baby in tow, it seemed monumental to bring the bucket seat in the car, where our daughter would, invariably, sleep. The car would wear her out for the next 35 minutes and then she would wake to see the excitement just as we got there.
I wouldn’t get my relaxing chit chat about fashion, entertainment news or gossip about the people who worked in my building. I would also be a wiggly target near scissors bouncing my baby on my lap. Most importantly, I was not at my pre-baby weight and my colleagues were across the street likely to walk by and see me not at my best. None of these were ideal for sure.
I knew no one in our neighbourhood except my neighbours and they all had downtown hairdressers. Shit. I had to do something. I had to take matters into my own hands. I headed to the drug store and – gasp – bought a box of do-it-yourself highlights. The ad made it seem simple enough. It even came with a fancy highlight comb. I’m a smart woman. I can do this.
The front and sides were tedious but doable. I looked like I had done it myself but it wasn’t embarrassing. Then my arms got tired and the back was hard with the series of mirrors I had constructed. So I asked Mister to help.
I gave him very strict instructions. That is where it went wrong. I asked him to follow instructions. We had already had a reverse BBQ incident the year before and I had long since given up asking him to help with IKEA. What was I thinking?
Moments passed and I had a false sense of security that Mister was doing as I had asked until I felt a lot of action. Instead of the slow methodical approach I had taken to work the front in pieces, it seemed Mister was employing a quick and jerky technique. When I asked how it was going I heard ‘This is my Salon. I do it my way.’ in his best impression of Perez Hilton.
This was the moment I had to find a hairdresser. Stat. I was skunked beyond help. The little experiment cost me $56 in boxed hair dye, $350 to dye my hair professionally then highlight it and $85 for a cut, $15 for parking and $20 in tips to my new salon. A grand total of $526. Lesson learned.