Bad hair days.

Transformation from Sith to Nordic Goddess (ish).

Photo by Birger Strahl on Unsplash

This week I was sitting in my dressers getting transformed into what I hoped would be a blonde bombshell.

Clenched fists and gritted teeth and a good book can get you through the transition stages of the process.

This is how it went — my transition from beige bummer to blonde bombshell.

I sit looking at the rough, dreary form staring back at me with red blotched face and sunken eyes. I try to convince myself it’s the glary lighting in the hair salon. The reality though, is I’m staring at a sunken eyed, sleep deprived form wishing the mirrors away.

But I’m here and transform I will. A black towel covers my bleaching head.

Staring back at me now is a short Sith Lord plotting my revenge. Revenge on whom, for what, is yet to be discovered.

The only enemy I have is sleep. And what a deceitful, cunning enemy sleep currently is. This old, stumpy, Sith lord will master the sleep demon. (Fingers crossed anyway…)

Back the hair. The transformation continues. The towel is removed, leaving a plastic bag draping over my shoulders. The Sith Lord has become JaJa Binks’ dumpy older sister.

This is only a step. Deeper into the transformation, I begin to wonder if I will be more like a blonde Princess Leia or a feminine Luke Skywalker.

Ooh exciting. It’s hair check time. The plastic is off and revealed is …

…Hawk from Buck Rodgers.

Hmm. Not quite the look I was going for.

Roots time, this will do the trick.

Towel dons my head and I’m now styling a more Mother Theresa look. Better than a Sith right?

Toner on. Magic time.

“The colour looks great”, one of the hairdressers’ quips. My confidence grows.

We head back to the mirror ready for the cut. I see myself.

Panic fills every fibre of my body. It’s not the blonde bombshell I was hoping for. Instead, staring back at me is…

… my mum.

Blonde was not blonde but grey.

Don’t get me wrong, for all her faults, my mum was alright. Yes, I know from many a conversation had; we all end up like our mums — it’s inevitable.

I just wasn’t ready for that day yet.

A rapid panic stricken (me) conversation follows. Clearly there’s a whole bunch of emotional baggage that needs unpacking here. I shouldn’t really be so panicked at the idea of me looking so much like my mum. But I was. Maybe I’ll look at that another day.

The salon senses my abnormal unease and go about trying to placate me. I’m having none of it.

It would seem this trauma triggering colour mishap boiled down to how we all interpret colour differently. I had turned up sporting a photo of an uber cool blonde-haired woman. The salon people saw an uber cool styley grey haired woman — the trendy grey but still grey.

(When you’re heading deep into your 40’s and starting the odd natural collection of your own grey beauties, there’s no sense of urgency to get these too far out into the open and admit you’re getting old. Well not for me anyway. I live in a constant state of denial.)

Back to my hair. I saw platinum blonde; they saw silver grey. For me it wasn’t so much a case of “tomayto” “tomarto” but more of “mum”, “not mum”.

After a lengthy but vaguely interesting discussion on the interpretation of colours with me chipping in my example of how my husband (incorrectly) sees a set of our towels as blue. I see them as brown. (They’re definitely brown…)

Eventually the magic toner is applied. I hear the words “Nordic” being uttered.

In my head I swear I hear the hairdresser say I look like a Nordic Goddess. Perhaps the hair dryer muffled the words…

Finally, I no longer look like a deflated Sith nor my mum but me. Miracles can happen.

It must be almost Christmas.

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Trudi Bishop

Trudi Bishop

Kiwi by birth but not always by nature. Spent most of my adult life in the UK. I’ve landed back in NZ, a stranger in a familiar land. Trying to figure this out.