How sweet it is for a loved one to part your hair into tiny sections and squeeze magic caustic goo onto it! A.K.A., Mom colored my hair during Liev’s nap today.
Mom’s meticulous nature parallels her hair coloring practices. When my Mother-in-law does my hair, she whizzes through like a frenetic chef demonstrating two a.m. Ginsu knives. She is an artist, working swiftly. After all you need mad skills to be a silk painter for the Bolshoi Theater.
Mom is an engineer, thoroughly inspecting sections for exact hair color application. She needs special gloves, her favorite battered aluminum comb, and a fine glass of aged Merlot. Behind me, she surely references tattered notebook, checking temperature, altitude and wind speed into consideration.
Questions follow. When was the last time I washed my hair? Did I deep condition? How long? Which product? Do you really want me to use this abomination of a plastic Goody comb on your hair?
I will be coloring Mom’s hair over the weekend. Where do I fit on the continuum as hair colorist? Heh. I already know. I’d best go find my favorite comb!