I really like this place. My sister-in-law recommended it to me. I went once last summer and never made it back (busy life and mad procrastination skillz). So, today, I decided to treat myself: cut and colour. Julie, the owner, was in charge of the cut. I told her how much I wanted cut off (I think I surprised her) and then she and Sarah (the colourist) did a quick “What do you think? No, what do you think? Kel, what do you think?”
Fifteen minutes later I was shampooed and scalp-massaged and conditioned and back in Julie’s chair, where she lopped off six inches in one go. “No use colouring something we’re just going to cut off.”
Back to Sarah for a semi-permanent luscious chocolate brown colour with - brace yourselves - warm caramel brown foil highlights framing the face. When dry, it blends in beautifully. After rinsing (and more massage and conditioning *bliss!*), she blew it out straight to make it easier for Julie to finish the cut. Four or five employees walked by at various times and commented on how pretty the colour was. Standard procedure, I’m sure, but when two older customers said something, I was convinced. Anyway, Julie gave me an excellent cut. As she worked, I asked if she could recommend a place I might get my eyebrows done. I’ve been toying with the idea for a while; heaven knows I’m not going to do it myself, and I have very full brows. For the most part, I like them. They work with my face. -ish. Still, they could use some definition. Besides, I’m 37 and feeling a bit low, dammit. I want to make changes, however small they may be. Anyway, upon my asking Julie replied, “We could do it here. I’ll see if Cheryl or Michelle has time today, if you’d like.”
Turns out Michelle did. With my (temporarily) straight, silken and gorgeously coloured hair brushing my shoulders, I followed her to the Special Room. It was small but painted in warm colours. Dead center was a padded couch like you’d find in a doctor’s office, but a bit wider and with no stirrups in sight. I clambered onto this, lay back, and immediately got nervous. Michelle dipped a long swab into a container. “Oh! Wax, huh? Heh. Guess I should have figured that.”
“It’s quick,” she told me, “Don’t worry.”
She started to apply beneath my right eyebrow. “So, how much is this going to hurt? Am I going to scream like a little girl?”
“Well,” she said, “this is going to be the worst it will ever be. I’m pulling out many, many more hairs than I would at any touch up. It’ll be like pulling a band-aid off.” She continued to apply wax and fabric strips, pressing down upon them and WHAM! off the first one came. “Wow!” she commented, “you didn’t even flinch!”
“You were smart enough not to warn me,” I told her. But honestly, it wasn’t all that bad. After touching up stray spots, she did the other side. Now I knew what was coming. I breathed deeply and again, WHAM! “You’re really good,” she said. “You didn’t move at all!”
“Honestly? I expected it to be so much worse!” She did the touch ups, tweezed a few stray hairs (now that hurt!) and put lotion on my poor, abused skin. As I left, both Sarah and Julie called me over that they might inspect the results. “Your eyebrows have a great natural shape,” the latter told me. I must admit I’m pleased. I still look like me, only a bit more polished.
Now to lose that excess weight. And maybe get a facial. I’ve never had a facial. Or a massage.Mayhap it is high time I stop being so freaked out by my skin condition that I deny myself these girly pleasures.
And here's another thing: I know fair_juliet said that getting a makeover was, essentially, admitting defeat, but dammit! I admit it. I want one. I need one. Sign me up for 'Oprah' or 'What Not to Wear' or 'Queer Eye Takes Pity on Ren Faire Reject.' This is not a dig on you, oh loveliest of fair_juliets! You are not only ridiculously beautiful, curse you, you are nowhere near the ass end of 40! I, however, am. So... help. Help, help help help help.