A girl has a special relationship with her hair stylist. I’ve had the same person in my hometown for years. I know all about her life and she mine. She knows my head and hair and I always leave her chair a new person. However, moving to the Middle East has made finding a hair person a bit of a challenge. Understanding my light-brown, fine Northern European hair which is very different from the black, thick tresses of my Arab counterparts. So, I look for the places that other expatriates frequent.
On one such visit I was explaining that I wanted low-lights put in my hair. Although by American standards my hair is light brown, here it’s considered blonde and I stick out like a sore thumb and the target of a lot of unwanted attention. So, darkening my hair a bit helps alleviate some of that. My stylist was not in agreement, my natural color being so rare here. After much discussion, he put his hands on my shoulders and exclaimed, “I must release the blonde! Why have you hidden it?” How could I argue? He was going to do whatever he wanted anyway. At the mercy of his creative hands, I left the salon angrily with very light, albeit pretty, hair, hoping that pulling it back would keep the ogling and unsavory comments at bay. Alas, it did not. Oh, well. At least I look great.