SO … with visions of Michelle Money hair dancing in my head, I walk right in to the local salon. Over the smell of perms and the hmmm of dryers, all the wet and foiled heads turn to see who’s come in.
It’s me. “Do you do Brazilian Blowouts?”
Blank stares freckled with a few looks of horror.
“Like hair removal?” Asks the woman wearing gloves over the shampoo bowl as her eyebrows arch straight off the top of her head.
“NO!” I cry a little too loud. “No, it’s like a blow out. Like a straighteing treatment …”
“You want me to STRAIGHTEN?, to BLOW DRY, down there?!” She is aghast. Horrified.
Oh. Good, night!
Everyone looking at me. I’m hot. Really hot.
I smile and stammer, “No, no! It’s like a treatment for your hair.” I say, and then point to my head, “On your head?” My pit stains have now battled through three layers of poly pro and one layer of sub zero down parka. Who has pit stains on the outside of their parka? Not Michelle Money.
All the heads are shaking. “No. No. No.”
People looking at me like, “What? The …”
The good news? I’m starting to look more and more local.
Karella, Musk Oxen