The Best Kept Secret Blog - If I Squint I Look Like Cher

Something went horribly wrong at my most recent hair appointment. I went in expecting my usual "Starbucks blend" hair colour (warm chocolate mocha with a hint of cinnamon), but walked out with black locks and platinum highlights that made me look like a native American princess in a Disney movie.

Because I did not ask for this, I initially surmised that my stylist either a)hates me; b) struggles with language and has gotten the words "brown" and "black" mixed up; or c) was flirting with the girl who sweeps the floors and wasn't paying attention when he mixed my colour.

Or perhaps there's another reason.

So that this unfortunate mishap doesn't occur again, as well as to offer up a cautionary tale for my friends of a certain age who, like me, haven't seen their natural hair colour since Ronald Reagan was in the White House, I will dissect the salient events of the appointment in an effort to figure out where things went wrong.

The Pre-Colour and Cut Consult - Lost In Translation

J., my hairdresser, asks me what we're doing today.

"I want to look young, but not too young. I don't want it boring but not so edgy and over-the-top that I look like I'm trying too hard. Just make it really good in a hip-young-mature woman sort of way."

Obviously no problem here. It doesn't get much clearer than that.

But wait. I remember that J. has only been in Canada a little more than a year and English is his second language. Good chance he didn't have a clue as to what I was talking about.

Colour and Highlights - Special Delivery

Looking like I'm ready to receive transmissions from the mother planet, I sit with protective tinfoil wrappers covering stewing strands of highlighted hair.

My phone rings. My daughter has left her bathing suit in the car and if she doesn't get it NOW she won't be able to go swimming with her friends and she will DIE!

J. wraps my head in a plastic bag and a towel. Braving the stares of strangers, I walk to my car and deliver the tankini to my daughter.

Possible overcooked highlights.

The Rinse - My Left Breast

Kind shampoo girl rinses chemicals from my hair and throws in a scalp massage to boot. So skilled is she at the art of massage that I relax instantly and even doze off for several minutes.

Waking with a start, I realize my mouth has fallen open and I am drooling.

As I wipe my chin, I notice the shampoo girl, the manicurist, and several customers are staring at me. I dab at the spittle again but still they stare. Then I see that they're staring at something a little south of my chin.

I look down. The black salon robe I was given at the beginning of my appointment has loosened and fallen open. My sports-bra clad left breast is on display for the crowd.

Is it possible that the shocked and amused shampoo girl has not given me a thorough enough rinse?

Finishing Touches - Out Damn Spot

J. blots away errant hair die that has strayed to my face.

"You missed a spot" I say, pointing to three marks that spread across my lower jaw like the Malay Archipelago.

J. rubs and rubs but the marks remain.

"I think we've got it all," he assures me.

"Try again. Rub harder." J. humours me but to no avail. Then it hits me. These are age spots.

No problem with hair but make mental note to book laser resurfacing appointment with dermatologist.

The Blowout - If I Squint I Look Like Cher

Despite the professional blow-out, something doesn't look quite right but three hours of gossiping with J., two cups of coffee and bad overhead lighting has lulled me into a state of deep denial. I convince myself that if I reapply my blusher and perhaps squint just a little when looking at myself in the mirror, I can pass for a a younger version of Cher.

Possible problem getting everyone else to squint.

The Post-Cut Review - The Awkward Kiss

J. and and his fellow stylists tell me how great I look and how much they love the colour. I understand now there must be some special signal stylists give each other when they screw up really, really badly and need their co-workers to cover-up for them.

Buoyed by the compliments as I say my good-byes to J., I lean in for a European cheek kiss. I remember too late that J. is not European. He appears to have no clue as to what I'm doing and awkwardly embraces me in a bear-hug before beating a hasty retreat.

As I leave, I hear him telling shampoo girl about how his last customer was trying to come on to him.

Make note to only shake hands from here on in.