A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song. ~Maya Angelou

Every six months, (oh hair gods, I know thee says every six weeks. Please don't make me bald) I go to my salon and get some very expensive things done to my hair. This time it involved foil, three bowls of color and three brushes, scissors, razors and funny looking gimped combs. The extravagance sometimes has me panicky.

 

She says, "So, I was thinking about what I wanted to do with your hair-"

Oh, thrill! She thinks of my hair when I'm not there!

She asks, "How do you feel about copper?"

I gush, "Sounds great!"

She asks, "What do you think about bright blonde?"

I nod enthusiastically, "I'm cool with whatever."

I'm infatuated with Amber. I've mentioned it before.

 

She shows me what she wants to do with her hair as she mixes goo and pulls out the foils. The magazine cutting is tucked into one of her station's drawers. I drool. It's a magnificent shade of purple, almost silvery, in a single broad streak through very light, golden blonde. The contrast is simple.

 

She's happy with the results. I'm happy with the results. Chilly's happy with the results. We're all gosh-darn happy. I panic only a little at the price tag.