Hi there, guys and dolls! Don’t we all love a little primping and pampering? Let’s be honest, we all need a little help now and then. As the edges of our years get a little warped and wrinkled (I swear I didn’t have that sag yesterday), the more important those beauticians become. Studies also show that too much sodium in our diet is unhealthy, so it only makes sense that when a gal has more salt than pepper on our heads, it’s time to get those pesky tails of aging covered up immediately.

Besides, I love going to my local salon. It’s one of the best places for the truly important news of the neighborhood. You’d think under those dryers you’d hear nothing, but that’s not true. In fact, my vast experience under the domes has honed my hearing to nothing short of miraculous. Of course, having the right fount of knowledge sitting beside you helps, along with the bubbly they ply us with as the beauty experts overbook appointments while they work their magical transformations, which thankfully gives us time to catch up with each other and keep us coming back for more. Again, I’m sure the champers helps….

Anyhoo, the big tale this week was about Carol. Word had it that she hadn’t been around much lately. Then the truth reared its ugly head. In a hideous shade that could no longer be hidden. You see, Carol did the dreaded thing. A few weeks ago Carol made the mistake of telling her hairdresser what she wanted done and aghast, went against the expert’s suggestion, insisting on what she wanted. Poor Stella, beautician extraordinaire. She had to let Carol the customer be right. Oh, that was so wrong.

See, Carol brought in this picture of Jayne Mansfield, you know that sultry, shimmery blonde with some big, um, assets for lack of a better world. Stern Stella took one look at our mousy, flat Carol and issued an outright no. But Carol was determined. Even after severely warning and making Carol sign on permanent wave end papers with an eyeliner (all she could find at her station at the moment) that Carol would not hold Stella responsible, the beautician let the customer be right.

Apparently, during the process they had to move Carol outside, the aroma from the industrial strength bleach needed for Carol’s particular hair was so strong it was leaving a noxious cloud, peeling paint in its wake. They moved Carol outside, who was happily content, thinking all would be exactly as she dreamed.

Ah, what price beauty. It came out this awkward shade of, well, pickle. As in dill, from the deli. Self-righteous Stella waved the barely legal disclaimer under Carol’s nose, saying her best thing to do was either shave it all off, or wait it out. Another dye job at this point would be fatal to her follicles and to just leave it well enough alone for a while.

“Could be worse,” Millie, my dryer companion said. “I’m pretty sure the carpet doesn’t match the drapes on that one anymore.”

Thanks for reading and stay tuned for more posts. And don’t forget to give my Poppy Cove Mysteries a try if you haven’t already.

Toodles, Barbara Jean