Then tragedy struck. I moved from California, the Land Of The Great Blondes, to Crazy Town, Land Of Brunette’s Not That Bad. I tried over and over and over to cheat on poor Lawrence, but I just couldn’t do it. My former (Gwyneth) tresses withered from neglect and turned an unfortunate mousy grayish-blonde with heavy roots and straggly split-ends.
Every opportunity I had to visit
Alas, ticket prices to California skyrocketed (well, maybe they went up 3% or so). I could no longer afford to fly out on a whim just to see
I had no choice. I had to find someone new, someone local, who could work with yellow hair, someone who wouldn’t scoff and say, “That is just not a color found in nature” like my college boyfriend used to say (I dyed my hair copper penny red for him—talk about a color not found in nature). I asked around. I accosted complete strangers on the street (“Ilikeyourhairwhodoesit?”). Finally, I met a neighbor named Margaret who had the perfect-bouncy-blonde-Reese-Witherspoon vibe.
Margaret took one look at my weak excuse for a hair style and eagerly recommended her hairdresser with the same zeal that I recommend Lawrence. This could work.
After a long drive into the Big City, and a pocket full of crisp ATM-pressed Ben Franklins, I arrived at Salon Perfecta. The girls who worked there looked like they had just stepped off the catwalks of Milan. A petite attractive redhead named Jane introduced herself and politely took the magazine photos I had brought with me, as if she did not know who Gwyneth and Reese and Cameron were. She laughed a cute laugh and said with heavy sarcasm, “I can certainly do this color. After all, these movie stars are my clients.” Funny funny Jane. I knew we would get along because she had a wry sense of humor.
After I micromanaged her every highlight (“Uh, Jane? more tinfoil for the bangs, okay?”), she handed me the mirror. The salon was living up to its name. After I paid the front desk girl (more than the rent on my first apartment—for a year), I smiled and ran my fingers through my gorgeous white-blonde tresses. When I walked out the front door, a nice blonde lady was walking in at the same time and held it for me.
It was Reese Witherspoon.