Orange hair

Two days before flying to Venice, I went to my usual place for the usual cut and color because I wanted to look unusually fabulous for the Biennale. Instead, I ended up with orange roots and a sickly green hue on the rest of my head. I was in such shock when I saw my hair (should have been suspicious when he turned me away from the mirror to cut and dry my hair after washing out the chemicals!) that I went home without complaining. After Dave returned me to my senses ("Tell me the truth, does my hair look ok?" - "Your hair is green."), I ran back across the street to the salon but he'd already closed up shop. I left an urgent and perhaps somewhat panicked (but not angry) message on his cell phone asking him to call me back right away to let me know if and when he could fix my hair (not that I really wanted this lunatic to touch my hair ever again) before I was to board my plane Monday afternoon. He did not call me back until Monday afternoon.*

When I hadn't heard from him by late Sunday morning, I frantically called my friend Odie, who happens to be a hair stylist at Saint Germain, to see if there was anything he could do. He went way above and beyond the call of friendship duty and opened up the salon and spent three hours of his personal time that Sunday evening doing what he could to rescue my hair so the circus wouldn't call me back into service. Odie did a fabulous job!! (Trust me, it looks much much better despite the continued orange glow.) Thank you sooooo much, Odie.

The picture above was happily taken in the courtyard of the Peggy Guggenheim museum.

*I know this because my plane happened to be delayed for several hours that afternoon so I was able to listen to his lame-o voice message in which he did not offer any apology whatsoever.