The Hairstyle Saga with Cari

I feel supremely confident making the assertion that I have more hair than anyone you know. No hair stylist that I have ever met has failed to make this observation. When I was in middle school, my friends named my hair IT. After my first year of girl's camp, I heard many stories of people identifying my church group by saying, "Oh, you're in the ward with the girl with the afro."

My first hair straightener changed my life far more than it should have. I mean, it was just a hair straightener, but to 14-year-old me it meant some modicum of confidence. Enough confidence, at least, to face high school on a daily basis.

Because of my unruly hair, I have always had strict loyalty to my hair stylists. This was especially true of the marvelous lady who somehow managed to finagle this IT

 

into this one.

That lovely lady's name is Brittany. After she gave me what was undisputedly the coolest hair cut of my life, I let no one else touch my hair for almost two years. Then Brittany went on maternity leave and I started growing out my hair.

Y'all, never grow out your hair. It is a horrible journey fraught with mullets and faux payot.

Then, finally, I heard she was back at the salon! Happy day! I could get control of my hair back!

I made an appointment, drove 45 minutes to the salon, and was told that Brittany wasn't even scheduled to work that day. Did I want to reschedule and come back or take an open stylist? Dearest Holly's readers, I really did think about this, but I work over 60 hours a week and I make enough trips to Provo/Orem as it is. I just had to see an open stylist.

The new stylist's name is David, and yea, on that day, David did perform a small miracle. Yea, he did trim IT in such a way that was pleasing, and I saw it and said that it was good. For behold, IT was controlled and also David did create a haircut that was fun and flirty, even in this period of growing-it-out, and I was sore amazed.

So when David said he had a vision and I should come back for highlights, you know I did. The only problem?

Brittany was there that day.

"Hi," she said, looking from me to David and back again. "I thought I heard your voice."

"Uhhhhhhhhhhhhm, hi," I said. Awkward silence. "Isawpicturesofyourbabytheywerereallycute."

"Thanks," she said. "How's (our mutual friend)?"

"Good. Good good good." Awkward silence. "You were gone on maternity leave for a really long time," I said, letting her down easy.

"What are you doing today with your hair?" she countered.

"Growing it out." I'm leaving you and your haircut. "And highlights."

"Oh how fun. I hope it turns out for you."

Then David asked me what color highlights we should do. Should they be blonde, copper, red, or red-violet? I felt reckless, and assuming that there weren't going to be many highlights and that the red-violet color would be pretty dark, I went the way of the bold.

The result?

Afterward, Brittany walked by. She said, "You're always doing such bold things." Score one for the hair stylist loyalty gods.

The thing is that after sleeping on it I kind of love the color, at least for the next few weeks. 

So, what would you do, guys? 

Go back to your old stylist, tail between your legs, or keep sneaking around? 

Or abandon the salon altogether and take up with some floozy in Salt Lake?