TMI from TMarie
So, something interesting happened today that reminded me of something, which reminded me of a story, which reminded me of something else, which was something I wanted to share on unfunnyme because it’s oh-so-so-so TMI.
And then I remembered something else…
When I was young, I HATED my red hair and freckles.
But what I hated even more was creepy grown-ups who said stupid things like,
“Heh heh, I’ll give you a nickel for every one of those freckles.”
“Did you try to get a tan through a screen door?”
I tried everything from old adages about removing freckles with “a handkerchief moistened with morning dew” to vinegar and peroxide. Nothing made them go away. I couldn’t get rid of the freckles, but I DID finally do something about that hair.
When I was about 14 years old, I discovered “Sun In” and spritzed it on my hair and blow dried it til it was platinum blonde. It smelled horrible but it was worth it! I kept my hair that way for a long, long time…
And then I got older. And I had three kids. And little by little, my hair started to lose its red. And of course, as these things always go, I missed the red.
And I wanted the red of my youth back.
I went to see Dallas.
Dallas is an amazing hairdresser. He’s an artist. He’s handsome in that completely exotic, chiseled-cheekbones way that leaves women tongue-tied. The fact that he’s completely gay didn’t make what I needed to say any easier.
“Dallas, I want to – gulp – color my hair.”
Dallas threw his hands up in his exasperated artist way that said:
Dallas crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot…
I took a deep breath.
“You know how you buy a couch and then you get curtains to match and in the beginning it looks really good but then over the years the sun fades the curtains and they start to lose their luster but the couch still looks really good and vibrant – well I want you to colormycurtainstomatchthefurnitureagain.
Dallas looked at me for an eternity.
Only his nostrils moved.
Finally he reached over to his table, picked up a pair of scissors, and held them out to me. He pointed to the restroom.
“Please, be quick. I need a color swatch. We have ART to make.”
I stared at him with my mouth wide open. I didn’t reach for the scissors.
He gave me fully raised eyebrows.
“You have no sample?”
My eyes bugged out.
“I have a sample.”
“Of course you do. You’ve been married for over a decade and you have three children. We will deal with the furniture when your curtains are finished – GO!”
He dropped the scissors in my lap and clapped his hands together.
Have I ever told you my life is awkward?