Still passing the open windows and falling down the stairs

Interpret this…

I went into the spa on my day off for a service. Maybe a facial but since they asked me to put on a robe it was more likely a massage. I walked down the hallway trying to find the room to which I had been directed but somehow found myself in the laundry room.

For some reason, it struck me that my appointment must have been delayed so I decided to help out and do a little laundry while I waited. The laundry room was very busy with the comings and goings of people who apparently did not recognize me but at the same time did not seem to mind that I was doing the laundry. And they also didn’t seem to mind that, while sorting the laundry, my robe kept slipping off. I was not simply a stranger doing laundry; I was a naked stranger doing laundry.

At some point, I decided that my appointment must have been canceled and they had forgotten to tell me. Since I’d had enough of doing the laundry in the nude, I walked out to the parking lot and climbed into my car to leave. My car. The one with the license plate which read “Ass Tower One”.

After waking, I questioned many aspects of the dream but none more than the “One” portion of the plate. Was “Ass Tower” already taken?

Why are you slurring your words?

Yesterday, I had my first spa treatment at the establishment where I play the role of salon girl. I adore the esthitician I was with so I was not uncomfortable with the thought of the naked touching and slathering on of numerous products. And I felt confident that I would be able to relax. But since I was merely having a skin treatment, and not some intense massage, I had not prepared myself to become as relaxed as I did.

By the end of the hour all of the blood in my body had pooled into my eyes. When I peeled my face out of the massage table frame, my vision and state of mind sent my memory screaming back to the nightly events at the bar in my previous life as a lush. I dressed, staggered to the reception desk to pay, and stumbled out to my car, embarking on a slightly hairy drive home.

I have learned a valuable lesson. From this point forward, I will feel obligated to ask bleary-eyed, facially indented, massage clients if they are okay to drive before allowing them to leave the spa.

Dead woman walking

Salon girl #1: So, bandick, how old are you?
bandick: 32. Well, 32 at the end of the month.
Salon girl #2 (Salon girl #1 has fainted): REALLY? I can’t believe it. Really? Wow.
bandick: Well, you know, it just sort of happens.
Salon girl #2: So, what’s it like to be that old?
bandick: Kind of cool. You know, senior discount and all.
Salon girl #1 (after the smelling salts): Neat. Do you still feel like you get around okay? Not too much pain or hassles carrying loads of medications?
Salon girl #2: Do you still have any of your own teeth?
Salon girl #1: Was it devastating when you realized you’d missed your chance to find love and have babies? Is that when you got cats?
Salon girl #2: Are you upset at the prospect of dying alone only to have those same cats, that you got for companionship, eat you after you’ve died?
bandick: Umm. Yeah. If you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time for my mid-day nap.

This is loosely based on a conversation I had with the salon girls yesterday. Overall, it really was a good conversation because I am assuming that their initial shock at my actual age means that I am using the right products and, for now, I do not need Botox.

Make-up won’t hide my secrets

They’ll figure me out. I’m a poser. I don’t belong there and I know it; I think they know it too. But the desire is too strong. I cannot stay away.

I started a part-time job, evenings and weekends, at my new favorite salon/spa today. I work with salon girls. I am NOT a salon girl. I think they know this. They sense it. They may not realize exactly what yet but they know that something is off.

Just like the cool girls in high school. They knew it from the beginning and eventually they discovered my secret…I hated 90210 and loved The Simpsons. And the salon girls will inevitably realize that I hate clutch purses and love comfortable shoes.

Now I really AM fancy

Fancy and blonde.

I wear my new blondness with pride because it was earned.

My appointment on Saturday morning was for a full foil. If you are not sure what that means, it is the aluminum head procedure. Not the one where there are a few pieces of tin meshed into your hair but the one where you start tuning in radio stations from Australia.

It took an hour to get all of the metal woven through the six hairs that did not get bleached. The colorist then told me that sometimes there are issues of brassiness with this type of coloring so she was going to give me a toner afterward that would make the highlights a little more caramel.

She took me to the sink and was raving about how good the highlights were looking already. She rinsed and smooshed all of the toner goop in while I pictured myself having all of the fun that blondes apparently have.

She returned moments later. Literally TWO minutes later. As she rinsed my hair she told me that the toner had taken. “Great!” I said. “I can’t wait to see it.” But I didn’t understand. This was not a good thing. The toner had taken. Taken to the highlights. And turned them caramel. And the rest of my head. Caramel. Like one big candy. No blonde. No different tones in the hair. Just caramel.

The good news is that I went back yesterday and had the whole thing redone. Yes, I was very nervous as she smooshed the toner goop into my hair but since she had used a different type of toner goop, nothing took. No taking of anything. Including my money, so although 3 hours of my life was spent turning blonde, we’ll call it a wash. A goopy toner wash.

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