So, yesterday I decided to try and return to my previous blonde days as one of my Chinese friends recommended her hairdresser to me. Hair dressing in China is ridiculously cheap, so even on my meager volunteer allowance, it’s affordable to splash out occasionally. I tried a couple of times before in the proceeding months, but the people with me were never very forth coming in the haggling department and we never seemed to be able to attain the price that everyone told me I should be paying. However, yesterday, armed with my friend Tracey and her VIP card for the most reputable salon in Xi’an, I walked confidently in to “Yes I do”, ready to transform into my former blonde glory. This was at 12.30pm.
Hour one, ran past quickly with negotiations, haggling, picture showing [I had come prepared] and discussions on what I wanted. Slightly unnerved that they kept pointing at the canary yellow, rather than ash blonde, I persisted with trust that God was on my side and I was not going to leave the salon looking like the cookie monster’s ugly sister. By the end of hour one, the first layer of dye went on.
As we embarked on Hour two, my head stinged a little as the dye set in and I was slightly concerned at the all over mask of dye they had applied…all over except a rough inch line from my scalp all the way along, which Tracy translated they would touch up later. I watched as my hair lightened before my eyes and anticipated my beckoning transformation. As hour two concluded, I headed for the sink to have the mask stripped off.
Hour three began with my return to the chair, head wrapped in towel, excited to see my new colour. Butterflies danced eagerly in my stomach as the hairdresser loosened the towel and I clasped my hands to my face as, tumbling around my shoulders, were waves of glorious…Canary. Yellow. Hair.
Trusting that they had a plan, and that they were going to tone it down, I spent the rest of that hour, and the approach to hour four waiting for the young, perfectly coifed hair dresser to return and sort the halo and fuzz around my head that put the brightness of the sun to shame. As we drew well into hour four, I finally managed to convey through frantic re-reference to my photo, that actually, canary yellow was not my colour of choice and could they please make some attempt to tone it down. As I understood my colours and heard ‘green’ banded about, I didn’t experience as much panic as Tracy, dredging from my memory that a green toner calms hideously yellow hair. I comforted Tracy. Erroneously.
Hour five witnessed the application of green toner, that didn’t tone, but instead turned my hair green/grey…except the inch root all around my head that still glowed with a faint day-glo orange. I rubbed my hands repeatedly over my face and suggested maybe they didn’t know what they were doing and I should perhaps return to my former colour. The remainder of the hour saw many hairdressers inspecting my hair with the seriousness of a heart surgeon over an open chest cavity. Finally we agreed to go back dark and I was presented with the colour charts again. This time I held little store by them, but pleaded with them to give me a warm colour so I didn’t resemble the washed out bride of Frankenstein. As I understood ‘blue black’ I hoped in vein that they understood, but held little faith.
Hour six was mainly spent looking in the mirror, aghast at my current hair colour, that made me look like a hagged witch and I welcomed the third application of dye with all forgiving arms wide open.
Hour seven was less forgiving as the unveiling revealed a charcoal grey head of hair…all bar the inch root, which of course remained day-glo orange. By this point panic rose in my throat that I would never escape this Twighlight zone salon and was doomed to an eternity of hourly changing hair colour, like a chameleon sitting on a rainbow. I clutched the chair to keep me in the seat, contemplating whether my hair was livable or not and if I could feasible wear a hat to work everyday. Tracy point blank refused to let me leave and as hour seven drew to a close, application 4 of hair dye began to be applied. This time I was told it needed to be jet black, as this was the only colour that would cover the horrendous mess they had made of my head.
Hour eight was interspersed by tears, both from me and the hairdresser who had since ran away with his tail between his legs, sending apologetic texts from behind closed doors to Tracy. Little did I know, but Tracy thought I looked so suicidal, that she organized a cheer-up-party in the form of my friends, who entered the salon [girls comfortable, boys distinctly bewildered and offering advice to shave my hair off and join their crew – they were looking for a female member after all] brandishing beer and jovial remarks. My mood lightened as I couldn’t help but see the funny side. As the boys escaped the overly estrogen filled environment with both testicles still intact, the girls remained with me, like a united front on the battle field, simultaneously holding my hand and mopping my brow as I was taken for the [hopefully] final shower off.
Hour nine and Hurrah! My hair was finally all one [unfortunately dark] livable colour and we raced towards hour nine with an impossibly likeable new hairdresser who snipped my hair with enthusiasm and practiced his few English phrases [all hair orientated] with his captive audience.
As I thought that finally, escape was in sight, as 10pm approached, our over enthusiastic and completely lovable new hairdresser flicked and tweaked my hair with obsessive finesse and continued as I began rising from my seat, clawing my way to the door. I glanced back and thanked the guy who finally got me through and waved from under my new mop of blue-black hair at the salon of staring eyes that tracked me till the door closed. As the lift descended I felt relief, and a sense of accomplishment in finding a lesson I will undoubtedly not forget: NEVER go blonde in China.