Ok, well, not quite the crypt…that might be a little dramatic.
But this is the tale from the kitchen. At my parents house. When my sister decided that Recessionary Times called for Recessionary Measures.
Before I get into what happened on Sunday, I’d like to give you a little back story on my mother’s alter ego, Chlo-Reen. You see, growing up in deep East Texas apparently supported/provided strong aspirations for teen girls to become hairdressers. Just like Trudy in “Steel Magnolias.” Only without the chest.
So, all my life, I’ve understood and recognized that if my grandparents had even slightly nurtured this desire in my mother, she would have ended up in East Texas Beauty School as opposed to the Theta house at UT in Austin.
And then she wouldn’t have met my dad…unless he had come into Super Cuts for a quick trim before heading out on a date with someone who loved doing their own hair…not everyone else’s.
Long story short, too late, my mom LOVES doing hair. Which is why God blessed her with three girls. She’s done my hair (fixed it) since forever and I always invested the utmost trust in her. Until one summer day when my younger sister Moo and I both wanted perms. (Side note…Moo is half my size and stole my metabolism. Her nickname has nothing to do with her size…and everything to do with a nickname she’s had her whole life.)
Anywho, Chlo-Reen came out again to play and in all of her hair-raising excitement, mixed up the rollers in my and Moo’s perms. Moo (who had very fine, straight hair as a child) ended up getting a head full of huge, one-hour-long-perm-inducing rollers while I (very full, naturally curly hair) ended the day with a head full of stinky, TINY, rollers that gave me a “permanent” (major understatement) which lasted all of 1.5 years.
You would think that this would have killed any shot that Chlo-Reen had at touching my lovely locks ever again. You would be wrong.
However, another fateful day in junior high when my FULL bangs needed a trim–I believe it was probably a Monday and not a salon open in a 50 mile radius–Chlo-Reen was there with excited eyes. And so I entrusted her with the scissors. And lost a very noticeable chunk of my right eyebrow.
That said…the lady loves hair and typically does a might fine job with an up-do. So in these Recessionary Times, Oopster (my youngest sister…we’re big on nicknames in our family) decided that she was DONE–D.O.N.E.–paying for highlights when Chlo-Reen could do them in the kitchen with a cap and some Frost & Glow.
Makes perfect sense. What? This doesn’t happen in your kitchen on a Sunday afternoon?
I, of course, felt it completely necessary to document this process.
You pull the hair through the cap (and yes, you CAN face frame on your own):
Then you paint the bleach on (totally healthy. no fumes. no SARS mask needed):
Then you sit like a cone head for a few minutes (10ish to be exact):
And then you end up just like they do on the commercials…with long, lustrous, beautiful blonde highlights. FOR TEN BUCKS. You just can’t beat that with a stick. Ladies? Am I right?
There were NO suckers born in this house.
Thank you VERY much.