AIMEE: I’m embarrassed to say I’ve never gotten my hair colored. Ever. I never even experimented with any of those hairdyes in a box that kids used to get at the drug store in high school. And I’m convinced I’m the only woman in Manhattan without highlights. But all that’s about to change….
Sandra at the Jeffrey Stein Salon patiently answers the same questions over again as she runs her fingers through my hair. “No,” she says, “your hair won’t fall out. It’ll be like the color you have but WARMER.”
“Because,” I say, “I know you’re not supposed to make these big changes right before your wedding but, I mean, I’ve got to cover these grays!” I shudder at the thought of the nasty suckers sprouting up so defiantly. And with the way my luck has gone with this wedding planning, I WOULD be the one person whose hair totally falls out (and I just don’t have the cheekbones to pull off that Natalie-Portman-V-For-Vendetta business) or ends up green, like those women who turn up whenever Oprah does one of those “The Secrets of Your Salon” beauty horror shows.
I nod that I’m ready and watch as Sandra slops on an orangey goo and an oatmealy goo–and wraps up sections of my hair in wax paper, like when you buy a pretzel from a street vendor. “I’ll be back in 40 minutes,” she says setting a timer, and disappears.
Was that really 40? Not 14? Or 4? Forty minutes with nothing to do but sit here and read magazines? And I can’t even make any calls because this haircolor glop is too close to my ears and it would surely make a big mess of my cell phone. Forty minutes? I settle cozily into my chair. Bliss. After all the gloppy goo has turned from honey to caramel to a chocolate-sauce-looking mess, the timer buzzes. My hair is washed and blown out. I take a good look and…it’s all still attached to my head, it’s entirely devoid of gray and even has a host of subtle, sunny little streaks. I exhale. An unqualified success.