Seeing Red

Being a woman, short, and left-handed, I have experienced all sorts of discrimination, from subtle to blantant.  Examples follow:

Most of us are aware that women can be second-class citizens when it comes to career choices.  I read somewhere recently that women make less than 75% of men’s wages in a comparable job.  That hasn’t really bothered me, since I don’t have a college degree anyway, and most of my jobs have had discreet perks that can’t be measured in dollars.  

As for being short, a college education can’t do anything about that.  My dad’s was 6’2”, mom 5’8”, and I’m 5’1”.  So much for heredity.  My dad’s second family was so much taller than average, that he custom built his house.  The cabinets and countertops were 3” taller than the norm.  So anytime I went over there, by stretching I could just barely reach the bottom shelf.  It’s hard enough being short in a tall world.  My horse’s stirrups are *farther from the ground, go figure.  Also, since I’m not a skinny 100 pounds, most of the clothes I buy are way too long in the legs and arms.  

Lefties also have it rough in a right-handed world.  When I crochet, I have to remember that my product might turn out to be a mirror image of the intended pattern.  When I wanted to play softball in high school, it took forever for my mom to find a (much more expensive) mitt.  While I’m in uniform, many people mistakenly think I do not have a weapon, since I carry it on the so-called “wrong” side.  (Many lefties are not totally sinister-handed, a fact which apparently escaped my 10^th grade phys ed teacher, who made me play golf left handed, no matter how much I tried to tell her it was physically WRONG for me.  And of course, therefore I sucked at it.  And just TRY using left handed scissors, I dare you.)

This weekend I experienced a totally new type of prejudice.  I’m very Aryan in appearance, blonde, light complexion with blue eyes.  The epitome of American Caucasian.  I decided, pretty much on a whim, that I wanted to go strawberry blonde for a while.  I had done this a few years back with an at-home temporary color package.  Don’t want to go permanent, since that requires expensive upkeep if I don’t want to have funky light roots with red hair.  So I started by going to the local pharmacy in search of some hair color.

Well.  I had a minor education just in hair coloring alone.  There are three levels of hair color - #1 brushes in and washes out.  #2 fades over approximately 6 weeks.  Level 3 is “permanent”.  There are no less than twelve different brands of permanent level 3 hair color (not counting the ones for African-American hair), and one level 2 that I was able to locate.  Hmph.  I cannot help but wonder what this says about the American people.  I mean the whole coloring thing.  Why *do we (as a gender) feel the need to paint our faces, depilate our bodies and change our hair?  I’ll have a whole ‘nother discourse on this later.

In the temporary colors alone I can choose from over 30 shades of dirty blonde to brown to black, or 7 tints of light or ash blonde.  One hue of fire-engine purple masquerading as red.  Of course all of these have very descriptive and attractive nomenclature. According to the manufacturer, the color number I am searching for is Clairol Natural Instincts #7R, Saharan Rose.  While it supposedly exists, it was nowhere to be found in a town of 100,000+ people.

I went to five different stores in search of this elusive color.  I am now convinced that it is simply a lure, a bait-and-switch for silly blondes who have the nerve to want to change their natural, god-given hair color.  [Is it true that “Gentlemen prefer blondes”?  That has not been my experience, for the most part, at least nobody ever left me for another blonde.  Although, “Women admire gentlemen, and sleep with cads” (R.A. Heinlein).]

If I am to make any generalizations about the population of this city based solely on what I found in the drugstore aisles, it would be that if 100% of them color their hair, the resulting populace is comprised of 80% brunette, 19.0000008 % blonde, and .0000002% some shade of red or auburn.  I am constantly the underdog.

I call every chain of pharmacy in town, with negative outcome.  I call several beauty salons, with much the same results.  WTF?  I finally lower my standards a bit and call Supercuts, the Burger King of beauty salons.  Where else can you get a haircut for $13.95?  Although, to be realistic I hardly ever get my hair done, so I’m truly no judge.  

I talk to a cute skinny little young chick who assures me that they have something called a “rinse” which will wash out in several weeks, and yes they do have red tints.  If I show her a picture she will do her best to match it.  Okay, what the heck?  Once in the salon, I actually found a picture of some hair I really admire.  Long, red, straight, with a bit of layer.  

Kristin held a non-stop conversation with every hair on my head for 3 hours.  I got a “Malibu” treatment, which apparently consists of washing my hair, applying gunk, sitting under the dryer and rinsing, repeated 3 separate times.  This is designed to remove the horrible hard-water deposits that I cannot avoid (my water at home is simply NASTY).  That alone took an hour, but my hair is sooo soft and silky now.  I really recommend it!  Once that was done she trimmed off the split ends (about 3 inches worth) and gives it a nice simple layer effect.  She disappeared in the back where they have a complicated chemistry lab that must resemble the paint tinting section at a hardware store, and reappeared with a blackish-purple concoction to apply to my hair.  Not for the faint of heart!  

All together my bill came to $73.95 for 3 hours of "treatment".  I made sure to give her a 20% tip.

Too tired to list out the boring details, but let’s just say the end result is a bit brighter than I had hoped for, although being temporary it will soon fade.  When it gets to the exact shade I want I’ll try to get a pic snapped and posted here.  For now, I’m rather startled every time I look in the mirror, but everyone seems to really like it. Even my mom, which really surprised me.