Sam: "Where are you going today dear?"
Me: "Oh, I have to stop by Heaven on the way home."
Sam: "uh HUH. Alrighty then"
So I walk into the salon, out of breath from climbing the stairway to heaven (har) which is TWENTY TWO steps!! and let the receptionist know I'm there. The shampoo boy comes to fetch me for my "cleansing experience" (this is a fancy salon) and then sits me in my stylists chair. While I'm waiting for her, the owner walks by to his station. Now keep in mind I've been coming to this salon for over five years. After about two minutes he looks over and says "well Shania, girlfriend, I did NOT recognize you! What happened to your long, luxurious hair??" He is in a snit of outrage at this point, one hand on jutted forward hip, the other pointing and waving furiously while his head is in danger of detaching from his neck from the force of the bobbing.
My stylist, aghast (aGAWst) at the thought that her boss might think she committed this atrocity, rallies to my defense, stating that the only way to grow out the color was to cut it off.
I smiled at Geoffrey and said, "it's a different look for me, no?" This was the response:
So, yeah. It's pretty bad.