So, I abandon the blog and then come back, and what is the first thing I do? Do I update you on recent trips taken, foods eaten, or insights gained while living in Guatemala? No, I will do none of that. Instead, for the second blog post in a row, I will talk hair. What can I say? I’m from New Jersey. It’s kind of our thing.
In my last post, I complained about hippy hair. In this post, I will now complain about Mandy hair, or the kind of hair only a Mandy, Tammy, or Brandy would have. It’s the kind of hair that begs to be paired with darkly lined lips, fake lashes, and long acrylic nails. It’s club hair, it’s Katy Perry hair, it’s my hair.
It’s not what I intended when I traveled to Guatemala City a few weekends ago to get my hair cut and colored. I had done my research and chosen a place that came recommended by a friend and that featured a selection of fine-looking haircuts on its Facebook page. The latter, for good reason. I left the salon—which was quite nice (think hardwood floors, plush seating, shabby-chic décor, and plenty of pretty people)—with a great haircut, perfectly layered and exactly what I wanted.
But I also left a bleach blond. Well, half a bleach blond.
A bit of backstory: I am a fan of ombre highlights, when your hair (brown for me) fades gradually at the ends to another color, usually lighter, and in my case normally, to dark blond. When done well, ombre highlights look tasteful and natural, and do away with having to worry about pesky roots. When done poorly, you write blog posts like this one.
I suppose it was my fault for overlooking a hard-to-miss fact about Guatemala: Most of its populace has dark hair. Conversely, blonds are few and far between. And so it stands to reason that it may not be the best place to hunt for flaxen hues. Unfortunately, reason and I are rarely on the same page.
Worse still, my colorist, Eduardo, and I weren’t even reading the same book.
I thought we were. He nodded as I explained that I wanted natural-looking ombre highlights that were just a little bit lighter than what I had already. And then he went all go-bleach-or-go-home on me. Of course, it was only after my hair was colored, cut, and in the process of being dried that I realized he had gone rogue.
“This is the color that every Guatemalan wants,” he pronounced, as he ran his fingers through the lower half of my hair, which had been transformed into a pale butter yellow. “Do you like it?”
“Are you blind, man?” This is not what I said. But it’s what I thought as I sat in my chair, sweating under the heat of the blow dryer, wondering if the people around me thought my dramatically two-toned hair was intentional. “This is not me!” I wanted to cry out. “I know this is tacky! And my name is NOT Mandy!”
Of course, I didn’t say any of that, either. Instead, I stared in the mirror, surrounded by dark-haired beauties, wondering what I had been thinking when I decided that Guatemala would be a good place to look for lighter locks. And then it hit me: Blond moment, duh.