The Accidental Blonde

Oh my god, I’ve just had the most traumatic experience. I need to lie in a darkened room immediately and possibly stay there for the next six months. I’ve just accidentally gone blonde.

All was going well, my stylist in LA had written down the colour she’s used for the past two years, I’d diligently researched salons in London and found one which used the same products, I’d made an appointment and all was good, or so it seemed.

Halfway through my three hour appointment I realized that things had suddenly gone horribly wrong. The foils came off, I was washed and the cutting began. Suddenly I realized I was a screaming blonde. Not just my nice, safe, barely-there dark blonde, the grey camouflage which I’d reluctantly started after an intervention by the Ramer sisters, but full on blonde. No doubt about it I’m blonde, blonde, BLONDE!

The color was a shock but worse was the cut. Inches hacked off, uneven layers and then straightened to within an inch of its life. Oh my god, my poor hair. All I wanted to do was get home and wash it in the hope that by drying it normally it didn’t look so bad. I’ve always said “it’s only hair, it’ll grow back,” but that was before I’d become Scandinavian.

Looking like the fifth member of Abba, I ran, head down, from Covent Garden to Leicester Square pushing the throngs of people aside. Mortified I tried tying it back, no good, too straight. I couldn’t get home fast enough.

I threw open the front door, flung my bag to the floor and dashed into the bathroom to view the damage. I washed it, I dried it, I looked at it.

Actually… the colour wasn’t too bad. Once the extreme straightening had gone, I think I may have over-reacted slightly as it looks pretty much the same as it did before. Bloody idiot.

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