I grew it and grew it and grew it. And then I trimmed the uneven bits. And then it was ready.
After a year of waiting, I could highlight my hair.
It’s as if I could taste the chocolate highlights that were so vividly imprinted in my mind.
The words of Wayne Dyer rang in my head: If you can see it in your mind, you can have it in your hand. It was the foundation of all vision boards everywhere. It was foolproof.
So then why, after the whole morning sitting with foils in my hair, did my dear mane resemble that of a Cruella-style, ice witch?
This was not what I had ordered.
I had been clear with the details, provided the necessary photos, and even been through the procedure before with the hairdresser in question - several times, in fact.
How could this have happened? It defied reason, logic, anything.
I had crossed all the i’s and dotted all the t’s.
How could sh*t still happen?
I genuinely did not know.
“Act, you must!”, Krishna told Arjun in the Bhagavad Gita, when a right had to be wronged.
So I did.
Of course, I cried first, and then, two days later (since hairdressers are closed on Mondays), I went to get it fixed.
(It appeared the hair fairies had been busy on the nights following the hair massacre, and so could not magically colour correct it while I was sleeping).
I was proud of me. The molehill had stayed a molehill. I had let a molehill stay a molehill. I was a big girl now.
And that’s when it dawned on me: they are all molehills.
I really was a big girl.
