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To catch up on the series, read Love, sex, drama and self-discovery: The escapades of Violet Online.
I don’t do my hair nearly as often as I should.
Apart from the expense, I’m much more of a wash and shake it out kind of girl. A wild woman. A hippie. Or, as I would say - a natural beauty.
As my girlfriends would say:
"Jeez, Violet, why don’t you just brush your bloody hair."
So when one of them mentioned I had a ‘colony of gray hairs’ at the base of my neck, I went into a panic.
I don’t mind having messy hair, but I am not ready to have grey hair.
Plus, I had an imminent date on the horizon, with a very gorgeous man.
I picked up the phone to make an appointment for a cut and colour, only to find that my hairdresser had immigrated two years previously.
I got the number of a new stylist (not a hairdresser, dahling, it’s a hair stylist), and dashed off for my makeover.
From the minute I stepped into the salon, I knew I’d made a mistake.
Pierre hugged me like an old friend. Really? Is this a new thing, where you hug your hairdresser? I don’t think so.
Also, I was the only one in there who did not have a poodle in my handbag, ripped stockings, a leather mini skirt, or a tattoo.
And I had no idea I should’ve washed my hair and made it look gorgeous before bouncing into the salon.
"Oh dahling", said Pierre, "what have we here, tsk tsk…"
The emo Indie music made me anxious. Pierre with his ginger spikes and very sharp scissors made me anxious. The "tsk tsk" made me anxious.
The hug had freaked me out.
I settled down into the plush leather chair and did my yogic breathing.
I could get into this, I thought. An hour, two max, chilling, having someone massage my head might be quite cool.
And I hadn’t read a trashy magazine for a very long time.
It was going to be okay.
Pierre approached me, with about 200 colour samples, all various shades of blue.
It was not going to be okay.
"Check these out", Pierre said. "Which one, dahling, which one?"
I tried to explain that blue was not really my color. Or green. I was more after an au naturel golden blonde.
Pierre winced. He rolled his eyes, shrugged his shoulders, and called for Khumalo to come brush out my knots.
"You don’t look after yourself, dahling sweetie sugar Violet. You need to get in touch with your inner follicles and your hair chakras. You’re a disaster.
"Maybe once I’ve cleaned you up, you can get a new skirt; a tighter one, one that fits. I insist on a complete makeover."
I was going to say that hair does not have chakras and I quite like my skirt, but it was easier to just sigh and give up. I suggested he chose the colour for me, so I could sit back and read the You magazine.
If I could take back one sentence of my life, it would be - "Why don’t you choose for me?"
He chose. An Ice Blue, he said, because it would match my personality. And then while Khumalo did the foils, he quizzed me.
How often do I wash, do I blow dry, have I ever used a conditioner, maybe a brush. Do I own a comb, what kind of comb, does it have teeth….
The magazines were crying out to me, but Pierre carried on – "Do you have a husband? Ah, you’re divorced, I get it! Did he leave you? When did he leave you? And oh oh, look at all this gray…"
The hair Nazi. My heart started beating faster, and I grabbed the moment.
"Pierre, do you mind if I just sit here and read? This is quite a treat for me, to be pampered, massaged, snipped…"
Well, blow (dry) me away. My stylist ignored me and continued with the inquisition.
"How old did you say you are? Really. And you left your husband? He didn’t leave you? Hmmm. You need to look after yourself better. Try the lip plumper, a bit of Botox. Ever thought about a facelift?"
It was with huge relief when I walked out of there, three hours and R3000 later. My hair looked quite gorgeous, if a little sharp, a little angular and a little blue, but Pierre assured me my date could only be successful. It had taken a lot of hard work, he said, but even he thought I looked ‘quite glam’.
I went to meet my girlfriends for tea. The same ones who told me I was gray. I wanted their opinion.
They smiled. They told me how pretty I looked. They liked that they could finally see my face, and that the color of my eyes really stood out.
And they were quite sure that the purple was ‘accidental’ and would wash out.
The purple!
I’m very glad I stole Pierre’s scissors.
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I don’t do my hair nearly as often as I should.
Apart from the expense, I’m much more of a wash and shake it out kind of girl. A wild woman. A hippie. Or, as I would say - a natural beauty.
As my girlfriends would say:
"Jeez, Violet, why don’t you just brush your bloody hair."
So when one of them mentioned I had a ‘colony of gray hairs’ at the base of my neck, I went into a panic.
I don’t mind having messy hair, but I am not ready to have grey hair.
Plus, I had an imminent date on the horizon, with a very gorgeous man.
I picked up the phone to make an appointment for a cut and colour, only to find that my hairdresser had immigrated two years previously.
I got the number of a new stylist (not a hairdresser, dahling, it’s a hair stylist), and dashed off for my makeover.
From the minute I stepped into the salon, I knew I’d made a mistake.
Pierre hugged me like an old friend. Really? Is this a new thing, where you hug your hairdresser? I don’t think so.
Also, I was the only one in there who did not have a poodle in my handbag, ripped stockings, a leather mini skirt, or a tattoo.
And I had no idea I should’ve washed my hair and made it look gorgeous before bouncing into the salon.
"Oh dahling", said Pierre, "what have we here, tsk tsk…"
The emo Indie music made me anxious. Pierre with his ginger spikes and very sharp scissors made me anxious. The "tsk tsk" made me anxious.
The hug had freaked me out.
I settled down into the plush leather chair and did my yogic breathing.
I could get into this, I thought. An hour, two max, chilling, having someone massage my head might be quite cool.
And I hadn’t read a trashy magazine for a very long time.
It was going to be okay.
Pierre approached me, with about 200 colour samples, all various shades of blue.
It was not going to be okay.
"Check these out", Pierre said. "Which one, dahling, which one?"
I tried to explain that blue was not really my color. Or green. I was more after an au naturel golden blonde.
Pierre winced. He rolled his eyes, shrugged his shoulders, and called for Khumalo to come brush out my knots.
"You don’t look after yourself, dahling sweetie sugar Violet. You need to get in touch with your inner follicles and your hair chakras. You’re a disaster.
"Maybe once I’ve cleaned you up, you can get a new skirt; a tighter one, one that fits. I insist on a complete makeover."
I was going to say that hair does not have chakras and I quite like my skirt, but it was easier to just sigh and give up. I suggested he chose the colour for me, so I could sit back and read the You magazine.
If I could take back one sentence of my life, it would be - "Why don’t you choose for me?"
He chose. An Ice Blue, he said, because it would match my personality. And then while Khumalo did the foils, he quizzed me.
How often do I wash, do I blow dry, have I ever used a conditioner, maybe a brush. Do I own a comb, what kind of comb, does it have teeth….
The magazines were crying out to me, but Pierre carried on – "Do you have a husband? Ah, you’re divorced, I get it! Did he leave you? When did he leave you? And oh oh, look at all this gray…"
The hair Nazi. My heart started beating faster, and I grabbed the moment.
"Pierre, do you mind if I just sit here and read? This is quite a treat for me, to be pampered, massaged, snipped…"
Well, blow (dry) me away. My stylist ignored me and continued with the inquisition.
"How old did you say you are? Really. And you left your husband? He didn’t leave you? Hmmm. You need to look after yourself better. Try the lip plumper, a bit of Botox. Ever thought about a facelift?"
It was with huge relief when I walked out of there, three hours and R3000 later. My hair looked quite gorgeous, if a little sharp, a little angular and a little blue, but Pierre assured me my date could only be successful. It had taken a lot of hard work, he said, but even he thought I looked ‘quite glam’.
I went to meet my girlfriends for tea. The same ones who told me I was gray. I wanted their opinion.
They smiled. They told me how pretty I looked. They liked that they could finally see my face, and that the color of my eyes really stood out.
And they were quite sure that the purple was ‘accidental’ and would wash out.
The purple!
I’m very glad I stole Pierre’s scissors.
Follow Violet on Twitter.
Follow Women24 on Twitter and like us on Facebook.
