Trust me, hardly intentional. Friday I went and saw my hair sorceress for a ~4 month overdue haircut, color (I think the exact words I used were, “obliterate the grey”) and some highlights. My natural hair color is “just brown” – it is what it is, but through the beauty of chemistry, my stylist takes it to a lovely, not terribly drastic, but “sure as fuck not ‘just brown'” anymore. It’s a nice reddish-brown and she throws some freakishly subtle golden highlights on it and I suddenly feel a good 10 years younger. I love it. (For the longest time, the grey in my hair didn’t really bother me. Then it became “normal” for my age. And fuck that noise.) While my hair isn’t the exact shade of Lily’s red/brown/gold patches – it’s close enough that when it hit me, I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or cry. I chose laughing, because crying gives me a headache and a runny nose.
Now, because I am feeling like I can’t talk about one cat without talking about the other (do see the official title of the blog if you’re confused) – the awesome haircut also came with ramifications for the Prozac Princess, aka, Carmen. The hazard of a new haircut (at least for women, I can’t speak for men) is that the first washing-of-the-hair after the appointment can be fraught with difficulties. You don’t use the same products, you can’t use a roller brush without a pair of scissors to cut it out, air drying frizz – all sorts of things can go sideways. Well, the sideways was happening, so I grabbed the hairdryer to try to smooth things out. For the most part it worked. (One friend did say, “it has more volume now” – it’s very nice that he mistakes frizz for volume.) But in using the hairdryer, poor little Carmen was Not At All Happy. I knew this from an incident when she was a kitten – she ran in the bathroom while I was using the hairdryer and got scared and I idiotically tried to remove her from the bathroom. I needed several band-aids after that “rescue” mission.
So, I made sure that she was out of the bathroom while I dried my hair. When I opened the bathroom door, I made a rather large production of putting the hair dryer into the cabinet. Then I gave her a bunch of crunchy treats. (With Carmen, we have a conditioning routine of, “Upset? Let’s go eat those emotions!”) I checked on her a few minutes later and she was sitting at the threshold of the bathroom with a look on her face of, “Where. The Fuck. Is That Demon from Hell?”
So, next time I see the hair sorceress, I am going to have to ask what hair product I need to buy that will give me a blow-dried finish without actually using the blow dryer. Because I have a looney cat.