Went in for a trim, came out with weird Barbie hair

I have weird hair. I talk about my weird hair here sometimes - not nearly as much as I could if I really let myself go, because I realize that not everyone cares about the agony and torment that this hair causes me daily, nay, hourly, and I'm trying to develop a sense of proportion or, failing that, the ability to fake one.

I get perms. It's embarrassing to admit that. I get one maybe once a year and then I try to show up at the next gathering acting casual, hoping nobody will notice that the last time they saw me my hair was straight and now it's curly - and, because people generally just aren't that observant (meaning they don't spend an ungodly amount of time staring at me in the mirror), it kind of works. Many people, when I confess to the perming offense, look genuinely surprised. My friend Collette now knows that I get the perms, makes fun of me for the perms but loves my hair permed, and has been denied the right to perm because her hair is too thick (yeah, cry her a river, I do). So now when I show up after the perm, she says "I love your hair, goddammit. Fucking bitch." The more she curses, the better I know it looks.

For a while after the perm, I have magic hair. Hair that can do no wrong (well, it does a lot wrong, but compared to my normal hair it's much lower maintenance, which feels like magic). Hair I don't have to obsess over. But perms, despite the cruelly deceiving name, are actually not permanent. And my hair (wretched, wretched stuff) grows fast. So then there's the other half of the year.

About a year ago, I finally succumbed to my hairdresser's entreaties to let her highlight my hair. I thought it might look unnatural. Then I realized - I'm forty. Natural at this point does not look good. SCREW natural. So we did it. It was great - blonde and stripey. I still had my weird hairline and all the other problems, but the blonde and stripey sort of took attention away from all that.

Then I took my son to get a fire engine red fauxhawk for hockey playoffs. I took him to a local place that's really close by, and they were really nice and did a great job on his hair. The place I was going is a half hour away and my hairstylist is on mat leave, and the rest of the place is kind of high-toned and snooty. So I thought I'd try this place for a while.

The first cut and highlights were fine. I liked the woman who did it. I felt like she got me. So today I went in, and school's about to be over, and BOLO is next week, and my friend Zarah's coming for a week. So I said "how about we go a tiny bit more dramatic - maybe a couple of more intense lowlights and a tiny bit of red?"

I should have knows from the gleam in her eye and the way she said "REALLY?" that I was entering into a Massive Failure to Communicate.

I meant mostly blonde, with a couple of lowlights and ONE OR TWO red highlights. Instead she seems to have done equal amounts of all three - blonde, dark brown and Texas Chainsaw Massacre Cheerleader Femoral Blood Red. I look like one of those Barbies whose hair my daughter colours with things that look like Sharpies. I look like I'm auditioning for a girl gang movie. It looks like hair that should come with a rivet-studded leather bra and super powers.

I wish I could add "...and I love it!" But I really don't. Not yet anyway. I'm trying to embrace it. I feel like I'm not cool enough to pull it off - I hate that. Because after all it's just hair, and it will grow out, and it's the summer and I don't work in a conservative office...or anywhere really...and my daughter loves it. I'm hoping that, after screaming every time I look in the mirror for the next few days, it will start making me feel like a badass. Which is a whole other kind of magic.