Around this time last year, I went to the hair salon. Desperately needed a cut and after sitting in the chair for what seemed like hours, I'd decided I'd had enough of this and needed a, dare I say it? ...Change.
"Try and go back to my natural blonde please oh, and could you give me some bangs?" I looked at her with scolding eyes, as this is the first [& last] time I would ever trust a stranger with my hair. Another hour or so goes by, she blow drys me, gives me a hug [yes, I always get in my hairstylists good books-- I don't want to look like Lady Gaga at the end of it all] and I walk back to the boat I was on at the time. Everyone immediately started complimenting me on my hair. Saying how good it looked, and that it was a good choice to get bangs and a new hair colour. A new hair colour? Pardon? I ran to my mirror, realizing just how strange it was that they didn't really have any in the salon. As I came to it, to my horror, I was practically a brunette. I nearly cried. Being a blonde my whole life and actually loving it, I was mortified that this bitch had changed my hair so drastically. And I paid her to do it!
Fast-forward a year.
I am yet again in my "I want a change, but do I?" stage. Like the magazine-reading-whore I've become, I knew how drool worthy luscious red lips have become. Not to mention I gawk over the beautiful Marilyn Monroe posters in my room night after night. So it was only a matter of time before I jumped in too.
I must say, when the Lize Waiter consult took me away from my "Burnt" in one hand and "Rose" red lip shade confusion in the other, I was rather relieved. Professional help was just what I needed. Half and hour later and I was caked in foundation and my lips glowed so red you'd think I just became a vampire.
I was pleased.
Finally, a change I think could really grow on me. . .
xx
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