It’s time I faced the truth about my philandering ways
Janet opens the door to her house, already wearing her powdery white latex gloves, left over from her mother’s kidney dialysis.
“Did you bring the foils?” she asks.
“Yeah, I cut some at home.”
“We should get the ones from the beauty supply store for next time,” she says. “They’re thinner and easier to work with.”
I put down my bag of contraband hair products, procured from my sister, a professional stylist, and pick up a glass of wine. Our friend M. is already here, with a towel around her shoulders. Her hair is swirled around her head in a muddy paste. (M. has asked for anonymity out of respect for her former colourist.) She checks her watch; eight more minutes to go.
“Shall we start?” Janet says to me, snapping her gloves. I pull out assorted bleaches, toners and potions, along with my sister’s handwritten instructions. One sentence is underlined: “No more than 10 minutes under dryer,” it reads, “or hair may fall out.” We mix up a nasty-smelling brew that turns a purple colour—a horrible Easter pastel that, when slathered on my hair and blasted with heat, will result in lustrous streaks of blond.
I was tired of spending $120 and long afternoons in a salon chair. Everything else today is high-speed; I eagerly await the blond app. In the meantime, our colour cabals have become a pleasant ritual. We save a pile of money, while also enjoying a nice sauvignon blanc. And so far no one has run screaming from the results. Our DIY salon intervention is working out well.
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