J. Lo is my celebrity crush. She is a strong, independent bitch, and somehow seems to get hotter and more successful with age. What other 45-year-old woman could attend the MetBall pretty much naked and land herself on Vogue’s Best Dressed list? The lady is a goddess, and I want to be her..
So, my summer, unemployed goal was to turn myself into JLo. I wanted to get super fit, super tan, and for the first time in my life, super blonde (Ok. Maybe just a little blonde).
Immediately after my last day of work, I flew down to Florida for a week-long beach vacation. What better place to commence my transformation? I planned to lay out on the beach all day every day, work out like a madwoman and dye my hair slightly blonder.
By day 4, I had reached an appropriate level of bronze and decided I was ready for the next step of project JLo. I went to the colorist my mom swears by, and asked for “sun kissed” highlights similar to the below:
Simple, subtle, not streaky– exactly what I wanted, not at all what I got.
In retrospect, I should have known that a salon in a strip mall in Bradenton, Florida, may actually not have been the best place to “commence my transformation.”
Two hours and a head full of peroxide later, I emerged looking like this:
I went back the next morning to get it fixed, and somehow my entire head turned a bizarre shade of metallic silver. “It’s great!” I told the girl without tipping her, and ran as fast as I could away from that hellhole of a salon. I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to look like a 75 year old woman for the next few days (which happened to be my little brother’s graduation) and would get the situation fixed when I got back to New York.
The following evening, my highlights and I had to attend a black tie event in DC in honor of Georgetown graduation. My mom, who still felt somehow responsible for turning me into Christina Aguilera circa the Dirrrrrty video, was kind enough to schedule me a blow-out before the party (In retrospect, I think she was probably embarrassed about having to show up with me looking the way I did). The hairdresser started styling my hair, and stopped about a minute and a half in. “I’m sorry,” she said “but this is the worst dye job I have ever seen. I cannot in good conscience let you go somewhere where you are going to be photographed looking like this.” Ummm, thanks?
She rushed me back to the sink, and was luckily able to fix the situation rather quickly. For those keeping score– thats three dye jobs in three days. It’s a miracle I still have any hair left, let alone that it’s finally a normal color.
What I learned from the whole experience is (1) never get your hair dyed in a strip mall and (2) blonde’s don’t actually seem to have more fun.
As for looking like JLO, that’s still a work in progress.