Ah yes: the life-changing epiphany.
This time yesterday, I was the poster girl for hope, joy, determination and other such adjectives.
I stood proud in front a flag with Andie MacDowell’s face on it as I embarked on my life make-over.
You’d think that after 23 years on the planet, I’d have grasped that Murphy’s law* IS law.
I managed to secure a hair appointment for when I’d finished work yesterday. For legal reasons, the salon will remain nameless …the last thing I need is a lawsuit!
Just as I was about to pack my bag to leave the office, Fat Paula dumped a folder of invoices on my desk: “these need doing, daaaahling. I’m in such a rush, must dash to the spa: milk bath waiting. You’ll do them right? Great! Kisses!”.
I was unable to get one word in during this whirlwind of orders and niceties, and as soon as she finished, she whipped out her phone, air kissed me, began telling Oisín that she couldn’t possible endure Praaaaawwhhh-gue again and waltzed out of the office in an air of perfume and coffee.
Oh Fat Paula, how I would love to do something horrible to you ….and of course, feel decidely guilty forever more because I’m far too nice of a person.
In case you haven’t guessed, Fat Paula is both fat and called Paula. She also has the same position as me, but manages to do about half the amount of work that I do ….probably because I’m doing it for her. She’s so confident though ….way too confident for a person who has to manoeuvre her bum into the chair …and a complete snob who is used to getting her way all the time. I’m from Tallaght, I’m of the salt-of-the-earth, occasionally-burning-out-your-car, working class. Socialites unnerve me!
And so cue to me, 20mins later, late and legging it down the road, a perfect picture of sweat and red-faced-ness.
I made it to the salon just in time, and was accosted by a super tall, leggy blonde who took my damp coat with a look of disgust (probably due in part to the fact it was from Penney’s -Primark to you Brits!). “Hmmmmm,” she hummed with pursed lips, casting her eyes over my sweaty demeanour as I squirmed uncomfortably and inadequately.
“Just sit over there and Clodagh will be with you in a minute,” she ordered, pointing to a chair in the corner ….which was partially hidden by a giant plant. Hint taken, babes!
As I was trying to inconspicuously smell my armpits, Clodagh materialised in front of me. “Uhm…hey!” she said eyeing me with some suspicion as I tried to convert my pit-smelling into a strange combination of scratching my nose on my shoulder and adjusting my top in the under arm area.
Clodagh was one of those hipster types (God, I’m turning into my mother. No wait, my granny!), with florescent leggings and a black drop vest that was ripped up in questionable places, topped of with pink Rihanna-mohawk-type hair. She also has quite an accumulation of piercings.
“So what do you want?” she asked, chewing violently on some gum.
“Well,” I began, ” I was hoping for something a bit funkier than this,” I gestured to my too-long, limp locks. “Something like Zooey Deschanel’s hair: thicker fringe, choppier layers….”. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Clodagh interrupted, squinting out the salon window at a group of guys smoking and throwing things at one of those statue-men street performers. “I know just what you want”…..
One hour later, instead of looking like this:
….I looked like this:
But with dark hair.
And a too-short fringe that came about halfway down my forehead.
I paid for the cut through tears, to a chorus of hairdressers gushing “Oh it’s sooo cool….”
People didn’t gush: there was an impressive array of pointing and laughing though.
The Luas journey home was spent with my hood up, while I pulled on my fringe with the air of a demented on-the-edge woman, in a desperate attempt to stretch it to at least my eyebrows.
Running from the train to my apartment, I avoided meeting anyone I knew, and as I ran up the stairs, tears streaming down my face, my hood fell down and my teeny-mullet layers exploded on top of my head. I didn’t care, I was nearly home.
Fumbling to get the key into the lock, I heard a door close behind me.
Oh Lord, kill me now….
“Uhm, yeah?” I mumbled trying to turn the key in the religiously-jamming lock.
“Oh …uhm ….you look …uhm …new hair?”
The lock clicked and my door swung open. Still not turning around, I half ran, half fell into the apartment.
“Oh yeah….sorry emergency …gotta …eh, bye!” I stammered, quite smoothly, and shut the door behind me.
Hot Boy Next Door …..typically nice timing.
*anything that can go wrong, will go wrong….for general guidelines click here