7/26/05

4:23 a.m. I found my first gray hair yesterday... shimmering there on the top of my head in the roots that so desperately needed touching up. I wasn't sure at first. Is this a trick of the light? But then I pulled it out and took a closer look. Sure enough. Well, wadda ya know. It was silvery white and thicker than the rest. I was pleased. None of that dull yellow gray for me, boy. I don't know why people dislike gray hair. It's such a lovely color. When I go gray I will have shimmery hair to match my sparkly pants.

Of course, that doesn't prevent me from running to my hair dresser in a panic. I walk into the salon and say, "Fix me! I need it to look good NOW!" She laughs. My hair is a disaster. Stringy and knotted up. I have been entirely negligent over the past few months. As she tries to comb her way through my rats nest, I feel like I owe her an explanation. "I don't have to have much human contact, you see..." She says nothing. I feel like I'm being scolded, so I sulk quietly while she does her magic.

The hair dresser finally gets me looking half-human again and then I have an idea. This is a full-service salon/spa. Why not try that spray paint fake tan thingy? A little color might do me some good...

As usual, I don't think very far ahead before embarking on this latest journey. I follow the cute, 20-something young woman to a room off of the main salon. The room is furnished sparcely with a full-length mirror, a floor mat, and a cabinet filled with the stuff that I suppose she will use to paint me.

The woman turns to me and says, "Just...you know...take your clothes off and I'll be back in in a couple of minutes." I looked at her. "I... you mean I have to get naked?" I say. She looks at me impatiently. "I've done this, like, maybe 200 times. Don't worry about it."

She walks out of the room and I stand there for a minute. I reason with myself. Oh, stop being a prude, Polly...women get bikini waxes from total strangers. This can't possibly be as bad as that. So I take off my clothes and I'm scanning the room looking for, you know, a towel...a napkin...something to cover up with. There is a chair and I consider sitting in it, but then I think of the 200 other people that were in this room before me and I quickly abandon that idea.

The girl walks back in and I reflexively cross one leg over the other and use my hands to cover the important parts. She glances at me and rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. Then she turns to the cabinet and begins pulling out bottles and tubes and things.

She loads the air brush sprayer and tells me to stand in front of the mirror and put my arms out in front of me. I watch in the mirror as she starts spraying me with this cold clear liquid. "This is so that the color will catch better," she tells me conversationally. I look at her. "You mean you're priming me? I'm being primed?" I start to reconsider the wisdom of being air brushed, but it's too late. I'm already on the roller coaster, as it were, so I might as well throw my arms up in the air and enjoy the ride, right?

The girl is spraying...you know...EVERYTHING. I am tempted to ask her how the weather is down there, but I refrain. Finally, after about 20 minutes, she tells me I'm done. "Stand right there, now." She puts a fan on me and tells me that I'll be feeling a little tacky until everything dries. She leaves the room and I examine the results in the mirror. Hmmm...not bad. I decide that being spray painted was okay after all.

Maybe next time I'll try the bikini wax.