Yikes. Thursday was my 3rd time going to this salon to see one of the colorists, Whitney. She had bleached and toned my hair at each of my previous visits, after which I had left feeling confident, pretty. My hair was an icy platinum blonde. So icy it was an ever-so-lightly violet-tinted silver. It looked DOPE.
Yesterday, though, when I went to see Whitney, I got weird vibes off the bat. Little did I know, my spidey senses were trying to warn me that Whitney was about to make me look like a staff member at a suburban mall Journey's in 2006 peddling pop-punk shoelaces and chain wallets. She was not her usual bubbly self, complaining that she was hungry and needed to rush to Zara after work. I get it, the girl's got a life. However, it didn't instill a ton of confidence that she was giving me her best self.
She then mentioned that I had "waited too long" to touch up my hair and that I would have a yellow line halo around my head. What?! I've been getting my hair bleached since I was 19. As a poor college student, I was getting my hair bleached, like, every 5 months. Seems weird that after 7 weeks I've suddenly screwed the pooch and consigned myself to a brassy ring in my hair.
Then when Whitney was washing the toner out of my hair, she goes "Oh, f**k. I left it in too long. It's purple." I took a look at it, and said "At least it isn't brassy. It'll probably look more silver when it's dry." She left me at the styling table (aka the "here's some product and a dryer. Knock yourself out because, for $100, you're sure as sh*t getting limited service" station). As I frantically tried to dry my hair, I realized in horror that my hair was a dark violet. A brief pause for context: This is a salon in the West Loop. Lots of wealth, lots of very put together women with highlights and Louis Vuitton. I have tattoos on my hands and a ripped backpack. AKA I already don't exactly blend into this neighborhood of chambray and Rosé All Day. So imagine my immense shame as I met the eyes of the urban soccer mom directly behind me, staring at me in pity as heat climbed my cheeks and my eyes stung with embarrassed tears. I decided to bail with my half-wet locks not getting any better as they went from clumpy grape jelly chunks, to a soft electrocuted cotton ball soaked with purple nail polish.
When I got upstairs, there were about 8 staff members (including Whitney) standing at the desk. I told Whitney that it was purple and that it wasn't what I wanted. I wanted blonde hair, not a purple reminiscent of the roadies for From First to Last at Warped Tour. Whitney seemed pretty uninterested and told me to go home and wash it out myself and that if I didn't like it still by Monday, to come back. ARE YOU SERIOUS? I work in hospitality downtown, and I can't imagine telling an unhappy guest to essentially go figure it out.
I got in the shower and took to my off-brand Eeyore head with regular shampoo to see if I could manage to scrub out some of the toner. When I got out of the shower, I discovered that my hair was breaking off in wispy white clumps and sticking to my face like a botched bleach billy goat beard. As I frantically ran my fingers through the sticky mess, more and more fell out in little chunks. The broken pieces were so damaged, I could roll them between my fingers like $111 boogers.
I tearfully called the salon back to request that a manager get in touch with me. I finally connected with Nicole, who couldn't have been nicer. This was the best part of the whole nightmare of me treating myself to an upscale salon. She listened, and empathized and agreed to refund the process and tone ($80). She offered for me to come in for a complimentary blowout, however I'd probably rather go for the hand dryer in a McDonald's bathroom before ever returning to Solo Salon.
P.S. went to Julia at Art + Science and she cured me! Turns out being disfigured by Solo Salon was only temporary. read more