I don’t go to the hairdresser very often. I, like most mothers, don’t have time for that at all. When the kids are in school, I tap the skin off my fingers. When Puk (8) and Olle (6) are at home, I am busy as a supervisor / feeder / manager / entertainment center / guru / hotel owner / boss and that is quite a job. The hairdresser therefore often fails. It’s pretty much the drain on tasks on my to-do list, just above “car wash” and “yard sweep.”
In normal circumstances that is not such a disaster. I arrive three months late at the hairdresser, who then grumbles like: “Well, that was actually too long ago!” Then she asks what I want to drink and patiently updates the gang. An hour later I am standing outside with neat blond stripes, and then I do not have to think about it for another five months (yes, I just said that I am always a little bit late). And that’s how it has been going well for years.
Until last Sunday. I looked in the mirror for the first time since November and saw that I was very hard with the baked pears. Waiting for the hairdressers to open again did not seem sensible to me now that Rutte had announced that this lockdown could last longer than 19 January. This little pig had to be washed and that immediately. I ducked into the closet and actually pulled a do-it-yourself package of coupe soleil from under the dust. “Mommy, what crazy are you having on your head?”, Asked Puk and Olle anxiously when I had squeezed myself into the plastic cap. “One thing to dye my hair,” I said, setting myself up in the bathroom.
There I started pulling tufts of hair through the cap so that I would get an even pattern of highlights. But that turned out to be a pretty painful job. After three strands I cut it. I haven’t had much hair since the kids and I don’t want to ruin the little bit that I have left with such a medieval torture method. I decided to do it with the comb just a little by feeling. A brilliant method, I thought.
Just a few strands here and there, then I would look fresh again in fifteen minutes. Hair washed, hair dryer on, looking in the mirror. OMG what did I do! Those spots! Ai ai ai, something had gone wrong there, say. Those fresh tufts that I had in mind turned out not to exist. Instead, I was covered in stains. White spots, orange spots, with some gray patches in between. The whole thing is yellow-orange, it doesn’t look good. I walk like Tigger.
People to whom I tell this story kind of nod as if it is not too bad. But I know better. And now I have to wait weeks for my particularly ugly haircut to be undone. That is why I hope it will snow soon, then I can go outside with a hat for the time being. And dear people with home haircuts, let this be a warning: look before you leap.
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