head and toes

head and shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes, knees and toes...
(sorry, had that silly song in my head)

Yesterday I took care of some of my body parts: head and toes actually.

In view of my upcoming trip to warmer climes, I indulged myself by booking a pedicure in order to convert my toes from the dried up winter look to a softer well-manicured summer look including a smashing blood red color for the toesies.

Now, I'm a stickler for details when I go to spa-like places. I mean, its all in the atmosphere right. that's what you're paying for. So this place is beautiful. Beautiful chairs with a sunk-in foot bath complete with massaging jets. The place smells good, essential. The lighting is nice and soothing. The girl pleasant enough (although i ended up with Rebbecca instead of Nelly, wonder whatever happened to Nelly, but anyways whatever). So my feet are happily soaking away and I'd love to get a back massage from that fancy chair while I'm at it. Press all the buttons doesn't work. Tell the girl who replies: "oh I'll get someone to look at that". So I wait. And I wait. I'm one of the quiet non-complaining ones at places like this. A while later, I mention it again: "no problem, someone is on their way". Yeah right, no one ever came. So then she leaves me there with paraffin on my feet and no massaging chair, oh well, I'll just sit back and have a snooze. I'm the only one in the place. I close my eyes and try not to think of the million things I have to do. Relax, I coerce myself. But I'm sitting next to the employees lunchroom-restroom I take it. And I can hear them coming in and out, in and out, laughing and giggling, even as bold as slamming the door. I just wanted to yell: DOn't you know its a spa here!" Ok, sit back, relax, let's concentrate on that new agey music they always play in these places. So I'm listening to it, but I also hear a rock and rolly upbeat sounds emanating from just beyond another wall, where the hair salon is. Cripes.

Anyways, all in all it was still OK and my toes do look yummy.

So while there, I figured I'd get my roots looked after. Yes, those darn white hair where showing through and there's no way I was leaving looking like that. Part of me thought of doing it at home myself but I figured, what the heck, since I'm there already lets go for the total indulgence. So my usual hairdresser (well I've only really seen her 3 times) wasn't there so I got someone else. Nice enough girl it seemed. She looked up the notes of hairdresser #1 to determined the color to use (as I went much browner the last time there). She puts the goop on. I sit there sipping a tea and getting updated on celebrities lives. Rinse it off, she goes extra slow, gives me an non-ending scalp massage. Nice. But then my radar goes up. Something is wrong. I can feel it. She's stalling for time. I can be quite intuitive that way.

Back to the chair, yep, I can see why. I no longer have roots, I have RED roots. VIOLET-RED hair. I'm trying not to cry. She's mumbling away hairdresser jargon, whatever, just fix it. So she put on some toner, left that on, and pretty much rectified it. I was in there a whole lot longer than anticipated. And I had planned to do so many other things. Rats.

But man, I'm so unlucky with hairdressers. Like the time as a teenager in the 70's when perms where all the rage. Went and had one done and my hair got fried, really fried, had to cut it off. Or this other time my hair turned green. When I moved to Ottawa, found this nice girl Tracey, followed her from salon to salon (6 in all), man these hairdressers love to move around...lots of "office politics" I guess. She eventually gave me a phone call saying she was no longer working. Bummer. Then hooked up with this effeminate Lebanese guy. Stayed with him for a few years. But he stopped listening to me. I'd go in wanting something and always left with puffy hair with lots of hairspray. Would end up going home and washing my hair. For a while, I did the home thing. The fight with the grey hair became more vicious. I did my own color for years and even went as far as cutting it myself. While pregnant, I even resorted to natural hair products. All worked well but hair was dull. I was longing to have hair like the movie stars in magazines. Then found this nice Portuguese guy who had been at his salon for 20 years or so. Phew, a stable one. Haircuts were great, got bold, went for highlights. Then went for root touch-ups. Another nightmare appointment, was there for 4 hours, urghh.

What is it with me, do I have bad hair karma? Is it our well water that does weird things? Is it my hormones/body composition? I'm generally pretty easy going with my hair, like whatever, it grows back is my philosophy. But when I pay for a service (and service industry was my livelihood when working) I expect the best treatment all around. I just want to find someone who knows what they're doing and blindly going there and getting things done. Is that too much to ask?