So if we're friends on facebook, you might have already seen the reports: my hair has recently suffered a bit of a mishap. And by 'mishap,' I mean, 'it's been dyed pink, and my colorist won't fix it for another week.' What exactly happened, you may ask? Well let's just say an inexperienced salon assistant shampooed my hair for approximately fifteen minutes in what turned out to be a sink full of red dye, and I emerged looking like beetroot and cotton candy had a love child on my head.
What makes all this even better? THIS HAPPENED THE NIGHT BEFORE MY FIRST JOB INTERVIEW. It couldn't have happened right before I went travelling on the road for two months. Or right after I quit my job and moved to London. No, it had to happen as soon as appearance mattered. Because that's how I roll. I like to throw obstacles in my path, and then trample them like so many bison on my cousin's teepee.
I pulled through okay, though. I did. Because I'm a bison. Also because the temp agencies I interviewed with were awesome, and also because I exacted my revenge on the aforementioned assistant in the form of some minor bloodshed and a call to INS.*
In the meantime, I'm on a strict deep-conditioning diet enforced by my colorist, and I'll be returning to the salon for a fix sometime in the next week. So if anybody's around in the interim and looking for a rave partner, let me know. My only plans right now involve ripping my jeans, tattooing the Virgin on my arm, and convincing my new employers that I won't pack a shiv in my boots or show up drunk to work.*****
*Kidding, of course. I prefer psychological torture. Which is why I'm leaving threatening notes** on the door to the salon every night.
**Kidding, of course. I can't write in Cantonese. They're threatening illustrations.***
****Okay, not really.
*****At least until I've been hired.