Yesterday, in a fit of inspiration, mostly encouraged by the warm weather, I decided to go get my highlights done.

Oooh. Highlights. Lovelyness. Blondeness.

I arrived at the salon and asked how long of a wait it would be. Immediately a surly woman, possibly wearing birkenstocks, swept me away and plunked me in a chair. I explained that I would like to go lighter gradually, no huge streaks and nothing punkish and scary. She sort of seemed to be listening. However, she didn't ask any sort of questions or examine the past coloring of my hair, she simply rushed to the backroom and mixed up a rather strong bleach solution.

As she start to foil my hair I reminded her I wanted natural looking highlights. She halfway nodded. If she needed my head to move, she would pull my hair. She splattered bleach everywhere (managing to get a spot on the back leg of my jeans and the toes of my shoes).

I tried to loosen her up by asking engaging questions about herself, but she remained surly and tightlipped. All I know is that she is from Colorado, she once dated a stalker and she is the sister of the salon owner.

Since I'm a glutton for punishment I asked her to trim my hair, specifying that she take off no more than a quarter of a inch. Four inches and fourty shades of blonde later I looked in the mirror and almost screamed.

I have a modified lady mullet. And she made my blonde highlights so fine that I seriously look like I am greying. I've had two people ask me thus far if I truly am going grey.

There was a time when I would have wept, sobbed and paid a small fortune to have it fixed. But with age, comes maturity. So now I'm just taking advantave of it by wearing belly shirts, eating as many twinkies as I can get my hands on and calling people "honey".

I kid, I kid.

Sort of.