After being happily blonde for a few years now, I decided to go darker (redder?) this summer.
Krystal, my hair sorceress, agreed, and through a series of texts we set a date for "the change."
And on the day I was supposed to de-blonde myself (a big deal after coming out of the closet so happily as a blonde, really, a big big deal) pieces of my mental security blanket crumpled when I found out I wouldn't be renting the house I thought I would be moving into in a few days.
I texted Krystal, begged to reschedule.
She cheerfully agreed.
Weeks later, after finding my dream house and getting packing ready to move, but before going to South Florida to spend a week with Abuelo, I made another appointment with Krystal and also text her a picture of the color I want (which I'm calling "Honey Ginger" and she's calling "Red")
On the way to the hair appointment, a very nice very young guy smashed into my car.
I texted Krystal from the accident scene that I would be detained and I'd reschedule as soon as I knew when I'd be free again.
She understood.
Just now I almost texted Krystal again, about to ask for "that" color, but something made me pause and string the pieces together into a story,
Every time I try to de-blonde, the universe seems to be saying NO in a most direct, firm and consistent way.
