Dye Another Day

But let's backtrack a bit. Got to Berlin on Wednesday night for a 5 day stay.

Let's just say that the unofficial phrase that summed up my entire sojourn there was: "That was not what I was expecting."

As I had explained in a previous post, I hate hair. So in Berlin, I decided to go for my 2nd femme fauxhawk. And what better place to get it done than Berlin? East Berlin, for one, is teeming with post-modern, gritty, no-bullshit people, and some fierce hairdos. Think East Village or Williamsburg but still underground and minus the hipsters. I got a recommendation for a place, thee place to go for the type of cut I so desired. On their website, they advise making an appointment at least 10 days ahead of time. Wow, must be good! I call anyway on Thursday and they say they have an opening on Friday afternoon with the master Friseur (and owner of the shop), Tim. Perfect.

The shop is exactly how I expect it to be-- funky, kitschy, and totally gay. I sit down and tell Tim about the bet and how I need a fauxhawk, pronto. He declines and suggests his vision of a short, cropped bob with some bangs. Thanks but no thanks, Tim. Fauxhawk please. No, he explains, because it's out of style and we should do something more up to date and stylish. (I wonder, have I ever really truly cared about being "in style"?) After a few minutes, I am enticed by a high-pitched voiced, suave-talking, gossamer gay man to do an asymmetrical bob with one down to my ear and the other side down to my chin and the back going diagonal. Cool.

But, alas, something that went down along the pipes of communication took a wrong turn because one side of my head is actually cropped sort of like a long pixie cut and the other side is down to my chin. Hmm, I think. Ok, interesting, I like unique/weird looks. That was not what I was expecting-- #1. I'm not exactly pleased but waiting to see the final result to make a final judgment.

Cut's done, my hair is still wet and Tim suggests a color treatment. First he asks me what colors I don't like/want. I promptly reply, "Red, platinum blonde." He suggests a caramel blond on top, a bit darker brown on the bottom. Ooh, nice fall colors, me likey. He goes to mix up the colors in the back, then pops his head back out to ask: "What do you think about purp--"

Me: "ABsolutely not."

The bleach goes in on top half, dye goes on bottom half. Mind you my hair has already been washed from before the cut...it's a bit painful, nothing I can't endure.

Halfway through, Tim checks my hair and cleans up some dye on the back of my neck when he discovers there's dye on the back of my shirt collar.

My shirt is ruined...That was not what I was expecting #2.

Bleach and dye is washed out. Toner (the caramel blonde dye) for top half of my head is put in...PAIN ensues. My face goes beet red, tears well up in my eyes while blisters form on my scalp. Tim (a bit scared and certainly distressed, probably mostly because I'm American, and you know what goes through any business owner's mind: I'll sue!) orders the shampoo boy to immediately wash out my hair. I tell him no, the color isn't done yet and that I can deal with the pain. (It's only been 5 minutes; I've dyed my hair enough times to know that toner need at least 10-15 to develop.) He insists, though, stating that the toner has done its job and that it needs to be washed it out now. Fine-- Who am I to argue with a 'master Friseur' anyway? ........ .

3 shampoos later, the final color result: Platinum on top and purple-red on the bottom.

That was NOT what I was expecting...#3.

I'm visibly dismayed and utterly confused by what just happened to me (to put it as lightly, no pun intended), by the cut, color, fried scalp and lastly, like the cherry (ugh, can we please not talk about anything purple or red, god...) on the cake, my formerly lovely, now ruined shirt. Why???

Tim is also visibly dismayed and not only gives me 30 euros for my dyed shirt but a 35 euro gift certificate and tells me that I don't have to pay, since he senses that things did not go the way they were planned... Ya think? I mean, he even showed me a hair-color palette to choose the colors I wanted before dyeing my hair. So the problem wasn't a potential language barrier, it was just obvious that he didn't know jack about color-mixing (or that he was color blind, in which case I would advise a career switch immediately) and used some shake-n-bake color recipe in that back room. Even if he purposely wanted to go and do something trendy against my will, since when was having half your head platinum and half your head purple in style?!

What did I do in my past life to deserve such a horrible experience? What kind of tomfoolery was this?!

As I leave the shop, I tell myself to be strong, that big girls don't cry, that it's just hair, that it will grow (then quickly reminding myself how I spent a long, 2 whole years--mostly full of awkward stages-- growing out my fauxhawk for hair that was my beautiful natural dark blond color, just below my shoulders just yesterday.) I arrive back at Michi's apartment and in (dis)comfort of privacy I can't control my oncoming deluge of tears; the faucets turn on full throttle as soon as I open my mouth to mumble some sort of greeting. (Luckily I called him while on the way back home to explain everything because I didn't want to have to deal with explaining all that had just happened to me in between wiping tears, sniffing up boogers or blowing my nose, and snorting whilst being unable to control my speech.) Yet it was almost as if Michi had foreseen the tragedy, because after slamming my head and body right into his chest and open arms, he led me, hand in hand, to the kitchen table to show me not one but two chocolate cakes he had baked. And next to them was written "I love you" in powdered sugar. How much sweeter does this man get? :)

After a good few hours of Michi comforting, supporting, and talking to me, (yes, effectively acting as my shoulder to cry on, but not exactly, since Mrs. Shortshit can't reach either one of them), I fell sleep and woke up to find the pillow ruined with dye. #4. I call Tim to tell him I want him to fix my hair pronto. I go back to fix it on Monday afternoon, this time expecting the unexpected. At this point thought, I knew he wasn't skilled enough to get my hair all one color and he still failed to get a caramel color going. At this now it's an ashy blonde with a lighter brown at the bottom. I didn't pay him this time either (he refused to accept payment again) and even got a bunch of some freebie, full-size hair products as well.

So, after all that, take a look:








And despite some truly insipid prejudgments ('pre' as in, having not seen the cut yet) from a certain someone who otherwise loves me (ah, but I won't name any names), I'm actually liking it now. Why? Simple: it fits me.

:)