Put Your Records On

“‘Twas more than I could take, pity for pity’s sake; Some nights kept me awake, I thought that I was stronger; When you gonna realise, that you don’t even have to try any longer? Do what you want to. Girl, put your records on, tell me your favourite song; You go ahead, let your hair down; Sapphire and faded jeans, I hope you get your dreams, Just go ahead, let your hair down. You’re gonna find yourself somewhere, somehow.”- Corinne Bailey Rae

Some days you just wake up and want to be different. Well, I’ve been feeling like that a lot. Not that I’m dissatisfied with my life… in comparison to where I could be, I’m living the life of a superstar! But it’s more than just believing these statements to be true… you have to embody the persona. So I decided to dye my hair. I wanted something drastic, dramatic, dangerous. A color that mirrors my volatile temper and passionate nature: fire truck red! OOW!

Well initially it was supposed to be strawberry blonde, but fire truck red is what we got lol. I promise you the harrowing experience to get to the salon in Waldorf (a bloody 2 hours away from Arlington in traffic on highway 5, urgh!), then having to find a bank, worrying that this is a real salon that says it won’t take you after your appointment time (only to realize that this is a hood salon that will take you if you say you comin’), then sitting for an entire hour as 3 other people get their hair done (as you agonize over the fact that you’re dying your pure/ chemical free hair). to getting in the chair and having her say: “you real indecisive, which aint good, just don’t cry in the chair when I’m done”.  Yea so after Madame T put the color on my hair and I sat for 25 minutes as chemicals burned my scalp, all I kept thinking was that I’m going to be different when I leave the “salon”. Of course Chris Rock’s “Good Hair” is playing in the background as I contemplate the notion of my personal insecurities and constantly changing exterior.  At least I wasn’t the most extreme person in the salon. Let’s not mention the woman with 7 tattoos who had jet black hair and got front swoop blonde and black extensions in her hair as she explained that her next tattoo would be on her face. In comparison, I’m the lame uppity girl who I’m sure Madame T believed me to be.

I stare at Madame T’s unshorn mustache as she rinsed the color from my hair and lauds on the versatility of short hair, her passion for its simple tendrils, as my sopping wet shoulder length hair sways on my back. “As long as she doesn’t bring out scissors, we will be good”. But Madame T is a miracle worker. Truth? She doesn’t know much about mixed natural hair. For instance, no hairspray… the main ingredient is water. Water is the arch-fiend of natural hair. It brings it back to its kiny, curly state; thus defeating the purpose of 5 hours at the hair salon. But the color she gave me? Tres magnifique! Madame T knew what she was doing when she picked out my hydrant color.

I must say this color has definite possibilities for my social life. I went to a listening party on Saturday at the infamous BP’s house, where I cooked a savory meal of shrimp etouffe, garlic spinach, and herbed couscous. Rave reviews btw… just saying.

Anyway, at the party… a dear, dear, dear friend of BP’s came over to install the accoutrement for the party. Well this lovely, lovely man decides to insult me and the other guests at the party; disdain my food which he didn’t try until after a litany of complaints; interject his delicious opinions on subjects which did not concern him or illicit a response; and make himself an overall unnecessary nuisance, exceeding the compulsory timeframe needed to accomplish his task.

Verbal sparring however, when equally matched, can be a delightful and entertaining sport: especially when one is attracted to said fencing partner. Unfortunately, in this situation the attraction was one-sided, leaning strongly on the male-side (while the female shuddered with repulsion). Of course, this only encouraged the eccentric opponent (EO) to sit nearly on top of my upon his return 3 hours later. I kid you not, EO crushed his corpulent body next my equally plump frame on a small single-person divan, rest his arm on my left, and lean his head close to my shoulder/chest; all the while progressing to call me “comfortable” as one would a cushion or a fluffy blanket. Yes, this is exactly the compliment a woman wants to hear after your repeated insults… perfect way to win yourself back in my good graces. Even worse? EO staged whispered to me while the movie played in the background. Not that we were extremely diligent in watching “Carmen Jones”, but the loud murmurs when you’re sitting in line with my ear is a little superfluous.

Safe to say, EO was the worse reaction to the new ‘do. The best was being called Halle Berry by a charmingly married man who I work with, who in the same sentence called me Babe… gotta love it.

I must say that the color is one step farther down the rabbit hole of self discovery. Not to mention how well it suits my face. Look out world… a new ginger vixen is in town!


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