The slut in my prude couldn't hack it

I did something yesterday on my lunch hour that I swore I would never, ever do.

Ever.

I went to a hairdresser in Mulletville.

For obvious reasons, this was as risky as say, dousing a lit firework with gasoline. I feared I would leave with a rat tail or duo-toned mullet or worse, that I would resemble a gym teacher.

The reason I went had everything to do with Sunday, when we got together with our wonderful, thoughtful, fabulous friends, Amy, and her husband, Des, who moonlights as a hair savant. We had lunch and drinks. Many, many drinks.

Afterward, relaxing in our living room, Des offered to give Junior his very first haircut.

I don’t know if I can accurately convey how happy I was about this. To have Junior kick back in his Exersaucer and have a friend cut his hair was a gift. And Des was so gentle and sweet about the whole thing, darting this way and that while Junior spun his fat little head and arms around trying to grab the scissors, like some kind of obese octopus.

When Desm turned to me and told me he would highlight and cut my hair next I was overjoyed. I felt like a celebrity. The wine and beer only added to my euphoria.

Out came the foil, the bleach, the booze.

I need to add something here, to put what happened next into context. When I was in high school, people actually thought I was Amish because I dressed like such a prude (nothing against Amish people). For a teenager, I had an abnormally vast collection of mock turtlenecks. I preferred the “natural” look (would a little blush or mascara have killed me?). Modesty was the name of my game (at least in appearance: I drank a lot on the weekends and made out with random boys in the McDonald’s parking lot. I was your classic prude/slut).

There you have it, I’m a wee bit uptight with my appearance.So I was unprepared—gulp—for the blond woman—gulp—staring back at me when Desmond unveiled my new look.

Charles loved it. Everyone, even Junior, loved it. Amy told me to give it until the morning and see how I liked it after putting on some mascara (I was wearing mascara at the time but my sparing, Amish application must have made it seem otherwise).

I went to bed and awaited the morning, when I would see myself anew and embrace my bad blond self. I would wear something leopard-striped to work. Don red lipstick. Smoke.

But sadly, I couldn’t pull it off. The Amish gal in me craved plain, mousy brown. And so, after asking around, I stumbled upon a local hairdresser who promised to make me boring again.

For a derelict strip mall store with a horrendous name, the salon wasn’t that bad. The hairdresser, Joey, assured me he knew hair color, though his blond tips on black hair made me wonder…

After all was said and done, I was quite happy with the results. Everything was going fine. I was blond, but not really. I had a newfound appreciation for Mulletville. Maybe I had misjudged the town after all.

Then Joey whipped out the hairspray and shellacked my hair behind my ears, “so the style would hold.” He teased out a cowlick and shot it again with the spray.

The bouffant mullet. Now there’s a look an Amish gal can wear with pride.