Why do I even bother? With my hair? I wear it long. I always have. The bangs are new, since about 18 months ago. That’s when I first noticed the giant streak of melasma from those insane pregnancy hormones planted smack in the middle of my forehead that needed to be hidden from the world. Those bangs also come in handy when camouflaging the weird little wispy hairs that now frame my face, another lovely leftover of those freaking hormones. That’s right, those little ragers left me with enormous bald spots on my temples. Both temples. I may not have gotten stretch marks or that black line down my belly, but bald and splotchy? Got it.

But the reason I wear my hair long is a simple one: no one – and I do mean no one – has ever, ever been able to get my hair right. As in haircut. (I’m thinking specifically of the modified mullet I was sporting after my last trim.) And now, you can add color to the mix. I waited as long as I possibly could before I needed to face the inevitable – the gray hairs sprouting straight up from my scalp. Really, would it kill those little buggers to grow in straight, with the rest of my hair? Wait, I don’t have straight hair, so that’s not really what I meant. I just meant, why in the world can’t they grow in the same general direction as the rest of my hair? Rather than at a ninety degree angle?

Pfft.

A few months ago, I had a pretty traumatic experience with my stylist. Who is, I might add, ‘one of the best in town.’ She’s done my hair about four times, the second time being the official last time I was going to go to her. She sent me home blond. Seen me? I’m not suited for blond. I have black eyes, black eyebrows and olive-ish skin that gets very dark in summer. Can we say ewww? Not a good match? Because it’s not. And so I swore, after listening to my husband make fun of me for about 10 minutes, that I was done with her.

Until… the drugstore incident. Wherein I colored my hair myself, with an $11 box from Rite-Aid. And all seemed okay. Until I got to Germany, and my husband, once again, made fun of me on the streets of Heidelberg, in a town where I spoke not a lick of German, and therefore couldn’t communicate with a stylist during an emergency color treatment to correct the issue, for having reverse roots. As in, dark hair, light roots. Lovely.

My hair needed professional help, and after desperately Googling stylists here in town and in SLC, I gave up and went back to my stylist. The one I’d broken up with. Know what happened? My husband again made fun of me, as I got into the car. Seriously. Can you say Goth Girl? Because that’s what I looked like. A little Goth Girl. We’re talking jet black. And this is after four hours, several rolls of tin foil and about three bowls of differently mixed shades of color. You know, for the whole ‘natural and multi-dimensional’ color we all strive for.

I cried. My daughter said I looked ugly. Several times. I cried some more. And then, my husband handed me the phone. And I did what I said I’d never do, in a million years. I called the stylist and told her it had to be fixed. It just had to…

And so, after promising me that 1) correcting the color would not destroy my healthy hair, and 2) that she’d give me the hair that I had as a child back, and 3) the ‘head’ colorist at the salon really knew what he was talking about, and 4) that she was not going to use bleach to lighten the base, after another four hours, I… 1) still had Goth Girl hair, only now with the added loveliness of an overall checkerboard pattern that brought in the most beautiful shade of brassy orange, 2) had massive breakage, 3) had hair that felt like straw… really dried out straw, and 4) found out today, from a new stylist, that she did indeed use bleach to lighten my color. But now? I’m back to a lovely shade of chocolate brown with… wait for it… orange roots.

What the? Is it me? Is it my hair? Do I just have really bad hair karma? Am I destined for a life of hair issues? I don’t get it. I go into these appointments armed with pictures. Clear photographs. I spend as much time as I need explaining what I’m looking for, what my goal is. And then, I ask the stylist what her opinion is. I’m patient. I don’t think my expectations are too high. And I’m not asking for anything unrealistic. Just natural, glossy and healthy-looking color. My color, basically. But without the grays. Am I asking too much? What more could I possibly do to make sure that what I walk out of the salon door with is the color that I’m paying for? The color I’ve requested?

I have no idea now what I’m going to do now. Miserable isn’t the word I’d use, because really, it’s just hair. And thankfully, mine grows like a weed. But in the meantime? I’m going to make nice with that collection of baseball hats in my husband’s closet. And brace myself for the peels of laughter, as soon as I head upstairs… Oh, and be grateful that I lost my camera. Because, seriously. You don’t want to see it. You just don’t.

Trust me.

It’s just hair, right? In the grand scheme of things? Just hair…