I had to put off getting my hair colored because we didn’t have the right kind of gray coverage dye meaning I would end up with two-tone roots. That would just not do. As Streets was drying my hair after cutting it she said, “Let me try something.” A bit worried, I let her spray this hair powder onto my roots. And you know what? It covered up the gray! I felt like I was on one of those hair club for men commercials though but seriously, it would do in a pinch while I waited for Monday and my actual dye job.
I had an interview on Sunday. (Hold your horses, more on that another day.) I sprayed some of the hair powder on my roots before I left hoping that it’d effectively cover the gray and my interviewers would be none the wiser. As I sat across the table from them sipping my latte, I had the distinct feeling that one of them, the woman of the duo, was staring at my hair line every time she looked at me. Every. Time. Of course, I became paranoid.
Throughout the hour I spent talking to them, it kept happening. I started to sit up straighter and tilt my head back and to the side thinking maybe that would keep her from seeing the top of my head. I probably just looked odd, like I was posing. I tried distracting her with witty asides thinking that if I kept her engaged and laughing, she would forget to stare at my roots. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Um, no. That didn’t work. She’d look me in the eye for a spell but then her eyes would inevitably dart up to my hair line.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Did I do a shoddy job? Are there noticeable speckles of brunette hair powder on my forehead? Is she a Hair Nazi? (Her hair was very well coiffed with a good dye job.) At the end of our meeting, we shook hands and exchanged pleasantries all around and I made my way back to my apartment.
I walked in and said to Jenny Two Times, “Can you tell I sprayed that stuff on my hair? Does it look noticeable?” Granted, the lighting in my apartment is pretty craptastic but she claimed that, no, it looked fine. Then Dokey showed up so of course I asked her too. She agreed, you couldn’t tell. Then what the hell?
In Junior High I had a classmate who would stare at my eyebrows when she would talk to me. It would unnerve me. I finally blurted out once, “Is there something wrong with my eyebrows!?” She seemed taken aback and claimed that they were fine. (They were.) Then why did she do that? When someone is staring at one part of your face like that it is unsettling. Like, do I have a huge booger hanging out of my nose or sleepy eye gunk in my eye or a zit that’s looks like it is about to burst? WHAT?! Stop staring at me! Aack!
There’s eye contact and then there’s. . . that.
Swivet: a state of extreme agitation.
I was practically in a swivet after the Hair Nazi Inquisition.