Punk rock hair

So...I went to the salon today to rid myself of my blonde locks.
I'm tired of coloring my hair and although the last time I actually saw my natural color (hmmm, I guess I was maybe 17?) it was still blonde of its own accord, the stuff that creeps in at my roots these days is far from it.
So off I went to the most expensive coif shop I could find in Kathmandu; always relying (too) heavily on my theory that paying more will protect me from disaster.
With the help of the, uh, technician, we chose a light brown/dark blonde shade and named the whole process 'lowlights' with a plan to keep a bit of my existing blonde all mixed in with a more natural color.
They put this rubber hat with little holes all over it on my head and used what looked like knitting needles to pull strands of my hair out over the top of mon chapeau. By the time they were done I looked like a white Tina Turner and I smiled at all the girls who fawned over me in pairs, working up a lather on my rubber-coated head with the brown goo that was meant to transform my brassy mop into something lovely. Or at least that's what I kept telling myself.

I sat and read tedious reports in glossy fashion mags about who's who in the U.S. celebrity scene these days and what they're wearing, about the new jeans for 'every body' (happy to see my own favorite Goldschmeids on the list but feeling a bit lost at not recognizing a single other designer), about whoever's adopting whoever from the third world, and whatever else they think is important at InStyle.

When I noticed that the pile of gunk on top of my head was getting awfully dark I kept my mouth shut and mentally prayed my 'spend more, get better service' mantra whincing slightly at the memory of how this philosophy has failed me oh-so-many times here in the third world.

The cap was peeled off my head, my hair was washed and I was once again seated in front of the mirror. My hair was very, very dark...but I reassured myself that it was still wet and would transform into a delicious mix of blonde and brown as soon as it was dry.

Finally, my hair was dry and I could see very clearly that something was wrong. When I pointed out to the stylist what looked like exceptionally dark ends she simply said 'This never happens.' and turned away quickly to tell her girls to dry my hair some more; perhaps hoping that the heat would magically evaporate the very dark deposits of color that had cemented themselves from my jawline down.

The girls dried, and dried, and dried some more. My hair stayed the same. They checked and double checked color tubes, talked over me in stressed Nepali, and apparently came to no real conclusion. No one offered me an apology.

I'll leave the conversation that followed to your imagination but I will tell you that I refused the offer of a color removal and fresh attempt, but hautily accepted the suggestion that I not pay for my ruined head.

I walked out, took a deep breath and accepted my fate. I decided I'd just pretend it was on purpose - one of those very punk rock styles that starts out doing its thing at the top and then fades to black at the end. I'm trying hard not to relate to Lita Ford in the 80's and lean more in the direction of Jennifer Aniston after a dark wash, but it's a tough call.

I'm home now and Hamid has been telling me he thinks it's 'gorgeous' - but he says that even when I'm up at five a.m. with a fever and haven't had a shower for two days, so I don't necessarily trust his judgement.

No, I'm not going to show you a picture either. When you see me again, just smile and nod and pretend to think I did it on purpose, tell me it's very cool...assume I was looking to put a bit more edge back in a style that had otherwise gone very hippie as of late; the rock star look; whatever....