December 21, 2005 - 12:15
I communicated my simple vision to Evona very clearly, with pictures and words, even making strong suggestions when I saw things were getting weird up there. But this woman had her own ideas, touting them as "our" ideas. "Our vision". The entire time she kept this guttural hum in her throat "ahmmm, ahmmm," incessantly. I forgot that part. She was clearly out of her mind.
"Dahling, (she talks this way), I will convert you to the joy of the flat-iron. No one but Evona will touch your hair, upon penalty of death!(with spitty "th".)" Then snaps her fingers and tango stomps her foot, like she's practiced the role of cheeky European hair-stylist in upscale American salon since childhood. You moonstruck, ridiculous Polock. Do you even know your job?
It wasn't until she began taking hair from the crown of my head, to extend the length of my "fringe", that I tearfully asked her to stop and left without further ado. Honestly, there were tears in my eye. Oh look, here she is. She looks alright there, but before you choose a side, imagine that she is wearing a magenta gauze blouse, with a leopard spotted vest, and a belt buckle that says "BLISS" in too shiny silver. Imagine it. This is the last time I will ever buy a salesman's hair package. Why did I?
I have to say, my initial horror was due in part to her styling process, which made my mane crown look like her blown out feathers for hair. And I mostly fixed the short, curled under bangs she saw fit to give me. But I am still sulking, because I miss the security of my mange. And I snarl when I smell her offending product.
Which smells like baby rash ointment.