Got the Cake Eater locks

Got the Cake Eater locks colored this morning and have a headache as a result.

For those of you who have never had their hair highlighted, let me enlighten you to the process. Because it is a process. A chemical
process that seems, to me at least, to be composed solely of ammonia.
Yeah. That stuff you might clean your floor with. It gets slathered
onto your hair, wrapped up in a piece of tinfoil, which creates yet
another chemical reaction. Depending upon how blonde you want to be,
the foil will stay on for either a few minutes or a half-hour. It's all
about the nuance of the lockage, baby. Did I mention this burns?
Nope, I guess I hadn't. Well, it does. Ammonia doesn't feel good and by
the time you're done sitting under the dryer (heating up the the foil
activates the chemicals further!), you're practically ready to beg for
a shampoo because you just want that damn stuff off of your hair as your scalp is EN FUEGO!
When the ammonia is washed away, you are then able to breathe a sigh of
relief as the burning has stopped, and then the colorist will fill your
hair with goo that supposedly tones the highlights and the base. Then
you'll get it styled and you'll leave the salon with your head smelling
like Mr. Clean without the lemony goodness.
Although I didn't go through the whole foil business this morning as I
switched colorists.
I'm extraordinarily wierd about hairstylists. I am not one of those
people who can plop down into a chair at the salon and trust the person
who will be shearing my locks to do a good job. If you're a
hairstylist, you have to prove yourself to me. This is a remnant from
my childhood: I had my hair cut by my mother's stylist for years. She
used to go to the salon every Saturday. Every other Saturday I would
accompany her for a trim. I wasn't one of those little girls with
lovely long hair. No sireee. I looked like a boy because my mother
insisted my face was too small for all the hair I had when it was grown
out. You can call me Frieda. I am cursed with naturally curly hair and
when it grows out, it has the potential to get big.
As in circa-1985, bicycle pants wearing, gum-snapping, Bronx big. Women
have lusted after my hair, saying I'm so damn lucky to have curl and
body. In my single past, men used to love to run their fingers through
the curls and amazingly enough, they never seemed to get annoyed when
their fingers stuck on a particularly erstwhile tangle. Everyone loves
my hair but me. Including my mother's stylist, a wonderful guy by the
name of Ken. Well, Ken agreed with my mother and kept my locks short
for years. I rebelled, of course, at age fifteen and since Ken wasn't
giving me what I wanted---less clipping and more mousse---I went
elsewhere. This was a monstrous mistake. Instead of receiving a trim, I
wound up looking like Gomer Pyle circa his Marine Corps days. Ken
accepted me back, despite my treachery, with a knowing smile and a
condescending wave to his chair, to which I walked, completely humbled.
I've been leery of new people cutting/doing things to my hair ever
since. I actually used to wait to have it cut until a trip to Omaha was
on the itinerary. Since I can't do that anymore, I finally had to find
someone up here to do the deal.
His name is Don. And he's wonderful. He's actually a barber, too, and
not a "stylist." Which is just fine with me because it means $20 a cut
instead of $50. Well, Don cut my hair, but when I decided to start
coloring a few years ago, I went to my friend ML's colorist. She ranted
and raved about him and was kind enough to hold my hand while he robbed
me of my coloring virginity. But I got tired of Shane. Don't get me
wrong. Shane's a good guy and a very successful businessman, but the
man is Irish. And I mean Irish
Irish, not just descended from Irishpeople---he's from Galway
originally. And I can't understand a fucking word the man says. My
hearing is not optimal. I'm not deaf or anything, and I don't know what
the deal is specifically, but there is a certain range where my hearing
is dodgy and Shane's accent lies directly in that range. So, while he
does a phenomenal job, it's an embarrassing experience to go and get my
hair colored by him. He tells me to go and sit under the dryer, and I
reply, "What?" because in all reality, to me, it sounded like,
"goitundethyer." HUH? Basically this is a mutually beneficial decision:
he doesn't have to repeat himself fifty times and I don't have to feel
like a dolt anymore.
In my usual style, however, I was a wee bit leery of Don's coloring
abilities. He's a barber---coloring is not his speciality, obviously.
Fortunately, I had no need to be. Don knows how anxious I am about my
hair. The poor guy got a huge education in my neuroses when I first
went to him. He whacked off a good eight inches of hair and reassured
me the whole time. He knows the potential freak-out situation he might
have on his hands if he goofs, so he simply makes sure that doesn't
happen. Today, instead of foiling my hair, he asked me if I'd ever used
"a cap"? Nope, I replied, what's that entail? Well, I'll pull the
strands that I want to highlight through the cap and then apply the
coloring. We'll then put you under the dryer and I'll wash it out and
that will be that. Sweet, I replied, knowing that I wasn't going to be
spending two hours at the shop getting my hair done, and that there
would be no painful burning sensation from the coloring and foiling. Go
to it, I told him. And he did. In the cap, I looked like a bald doll
which only had a few stray strands left on the top of her head. Only to
get my thickola hair through the cap he had to yank a wee bit, and my
scalp is killing me right about now. I thought it was the ammonia that
was irritating it, but after I washed it for the third time, I realized
it must be the yanking. Which leads to the question, what exactly do
you do to soothe an irritated scalp? I've never had this problem
before. I can't put skin creams in my hair. That wouldn't work. But the
stinging is driving me nuts. I'll stick with the foiling next time.
Better the devil you know, eh?