"PLEASE, Rachel, Don't Hurt 'Em"

I really like the girl who re-locks my locks over here. Aida is as sweet as sweet can be, and always tries accomodate my often last-minute pleas for appointments.

But the next time she peeks under my dryer hood just as my eyes start rolling back in my skull, my flesh starts to bubble and I damn near faint and chirps, "Rachel, is it hot?" I am gonna punch her right smack in her cake hole.

And then, while she was trimming my locks this evening, Aida had the nerve to mention, "Rachel, the gray hairs are many. You need color on your roots." I fantasized about following that punch with a vicious head butt. I mean, a few months back, Aida is the one who left the first batch of toxic brew on my head so long, I came out with a depthless color best described as "Elvis, Circa 1967 Blue Hawaii Concert." That coal black helmet just didn't work for the lighter, more peppy attitude I'd been rocking since I first got highlights in September of 2006, so I eventually went back to my previous salon. That's where some goofy young new guy left peroxide on my gnarly tresses so long, I looked like Billy Freakin' Idol for about 45 minutes before the salon owner came over and calmed the straight up Ghetto Girl winds that had started to blow.

(In short, somebody was gon' DIE up in that spot unless they got me straight, I promise you.)

Truth be told, my hair hasn't been the same ever since those back-to-back color calamities. I tried to get the tone adjusted when I was back in the States, but my groovy DC stylist, Gary, refused to touch it. "That color is fierce," he hissed, even when I begged for a little more juice to ramp it down a notch or so. In fact, when he touched up my roots, Gary took it one color lighter. So now, I don't know what do do with my poor noggin. A part of me just wants to let it alone, but I also don't want to walk around looking crazy with half caramel colored highlights and half ashy gray roots.

I should just shave the shit off, right? After all, I've been embracing India Arie lyrics lately, right?

"I am not my hair/I am not this skin/I am not your expectations, no...I am not my hair/I am not this skin/I am the soul that lives within..."

Well, after an evening with Aida, thet soul that lives within ain't tryin' to hear all that pacifist noise. The only thing musical I'm thinkin' bout is the title of an MC Hammer album. See the above blogpost title.

Grrrrrrr.