My German hairdresser is officially ruining my life

My frump is at an all time high this week and my German hairdresser is really pushing it by making me ugly I assume ON PURPOSE, which is good for no one because all it does is set me off.

Now normally, I really don’t care. I don’t get all starry-eyed about pretty things and I’m certainly not in the running for some beauty pageant but there are at least three things I care about.

1. My cleavage
2. My hair
3. My upper lip situation, meaning I prefer not to have a mustache.

And my German hairdresser has outdone herself by ruining my #2 personal priority by making me look like Rainbow fucking Bright.

Last time she pulled a fast one on me by giving me whatever hair color she wanted, I thought it was cute. I was all, “Awww, the Germans. They are just so misunderstood. I am so flexible. I will just roll with this red hair and call myself spunky.”

Well now I’m not spunky and the only person misunderstood in this whole situation is me. Me with the ugly hair.

Let’s flash back to two months ago when I went in and said I wanted to go strawberry blonde. I showed her this picture of Lindsay Lohan:

Seemed like a good idea to spice up my winter.

To this idea, she shook her head and said no. Not, ok, if you want it. Not, let’s think about it. Just no. And then I ended up with this bright and deep red number:

Ignore the hideous attire. Focus on the crazy hair.

So this time I go in with two pictures. One is of me on the beach in the summer, with my blonde hair, which I am still not quite ready for. I say to the girl, “Here is what we need to shoot for in June or July. We need to get back to this. And when I say shoot for, I mean work towards.” Just so we don’t have any lost in translation problems with me and my German hairdresser.

She nods and then grabs at the other picture.

“Jennifer Anniston. You know her, yes?” I asked. I don’t know who they know over here. She nodded.

“Ok, great. So let’s try this out. A nice brown that is some sort of compromise between deep red and bright blonde. Feel free to go with caramel or something else that sounds nice.” I then realize the German community may not compare hair dye to desserts or sweets but she seems to understand. She yaps to the younger girl to go mix up my hair magic. This is what I assumed I’d come out looking like, minus the movie star aspect:

Minus the perfect smile, tan and perfect body, of course.

I spend the next two hours getting all dyed up, dying in anticipation for the shampooing process. I was beyond giddy to have a new stranger wash my hair. This whole, I love it when strangers wash my hair, is becoming a problem. I’ve even added “personal hair washer” to my list of staff I’ll need one day when I win the lottery.

After my orgasmic hair wash, I am even more excited to see the reveal, like I’m on some sort of makeover show, and I can barely stand it while I wait for her to take off the towel.

Look, life has been slightly boring lately. I look forward to the little things.

And then she does it. She attempts to ruin my life by revealing a look I can only compare to this.

Seriously. No offense to this little lady but "rainbow" was never mentioned in my directions.

And so no, I don’t have any blue or green or bright purple in my hair but the hair that was previously deep red is kind of pink and there is an abundance of platinum streaks everywhere, mostly in places they don’t belong. I look crazy, which is exactly why I’ll be wearing my hair up for two months.

Unless the 80s have some sort of revival and people are looking for the next Rainbow Hair Top Model.

Then I’m motherfucking in.