This is Rachel Ebarb:
I know it. She really is adorable.
So I drove over to Plethora Salon, which just so happens to be next to The Village Bakery in Bend, Oregon, but I chose coffee, this time at least. That bakery smells like heaven, so I was in a happy mood when I walked into the Salon.
I bet I probably shouldn't trade with the bakery though, since writing for cookies is probably counter-productive for a Chubby Mommy Runner who's trying to lose weight, and Stacey would probably put a hidden camera on me to monitor my bakery choices, than tweet to the whole entire world that I'm sabotaging her reputation and entire career by making "counter productive" food choices after my workouts with her.
I never should have taught @StaceySpandex how to tweet...
But enough about Stacey. Let's talk about Rachel.
When I walked in to the lovely front room of Plethora, I appreciated its lemon yellow walls catching the morning sun, which was shining softly through gauzy curtains. I felt my shoulders relax, and I asked Rachel if I could maybe hang out on the overstuffed couch and read back issues of Vogue for a while.
But I looked like this:
So Rachel said no, in a cheery, happy way, and how about I come on over to her chair and drink my coffee while we talked about me, and my hair, and my favorite colors?
I could tell we'd be friends right away.
Rachel ran her fingers through my hair and said surely Stacey must have been over-reacting, in her usual dramatic way, when she placed the 911 hair emergency call last week, because as far as Rachel could tell, my hair really wasn't that bad, but wouldn't it be fun to maybe add a little color, and a few layers, just to liven it up a bit?
Oh, yes, I said. That sounds like a lot of fun.
So then I got on Twitter and Facebook and asked everyone what color I should choose for my hair. All the women said red, and the men said "brown." Which is funny, because my hair is already brown, so I chose red.
But I was secretly please that my (self-proclaimed) Twitter fan club boys probably think my hair is fine being brown, because maybe my hair doesn't really matter so much to them, because they just like me for me, and my funny little tweets and really don't care what I look like.
Is it any wonder that I like Twitter so much? I get to make up my own theories, and they are always right, because I just tweet them.
Anyway, back to my hair. Please.
There are so very many kinds of reds, of course, that a person could talk about the best red all day, if there was time.
Rachel and I poured over pages and pages of lovely redheads to figure out the best kind of red for me. Despite my insisting that she could choose whatever shade she thought would look best, she gradually led me to the conclusion that I did have a preference, and then she went to the back and mixed up a batch of the perfect red for me.
I don't think I whined or said "I hate this!" (like I do with Stacey) once the entire time I was with Rachel, even though I had to sit in front of a mirror for a long time, while she put these things in my hair while I twittered:
I think Stylists are easier to be deal with than personal trainers, but that's just a guess.
So after a lovely morning of chatting with Rachel about babies and working and how she nearly cut her finger off once but managed to finish up the client's haircut before she went to ER to get her knuckle stitched up, while she snipped and feathered and showed me her beautiful tattoos, I ended up looking like this:
And now that all is said and done, I think Stacey was right. I did need a little hair help after all. And I will go back to Rachel from now on, and maybe try some other colors, just for fun.