She thought she was doing a good thing. She felt she was helping me out.
“Michelle, I like you.” (We’d only met an hour before.) “I want to add some color to the front of your hair. Trust me. It will be beautiful. I’ll make you look like a movie star.” (We had discussed another color before making the final decision.) “I won’t charge you any extra for the color…trust me…you’ll be beautiful!”
I trusted her.
She was a sweetheart and we were sharing easily with one another. She knew what I wanted and what I didn’t. We had discussed it fully before starting.
When the towel came away from my newly colored, soaking wet hair, I could tell something wasn’t right. The deepness of the color was closer to a purple than an orange. But she wanted to surprise me and didn’t want me to look until she had completely finished. As she cut and styled, I prayed, “God, how did she get the color so wrong?!?! Didn’t she see the plugs I pulled to show her exactly what I wanted? I never touched those deeper reds!! Oh Lord, I know it’s just hair, please, help me be graceful!”
Phat sat in the chair opposite with frequent comments:
“You’re gonna like it.”
“It looks really nice, Michelle.”
The final spritz. “Just some sparkle to make you shine!”
She was all smiles, knowing full well I would love it.
Well, you already know what happened…
Shock. Disappointment. Frustration. Anger. But…
…resignation…maybe even some appreciation…for the effort and the thought.
Yeah, weird, huh? I appreciated her attention and care. Her desire to do something “nice” for me. I was thankful for the love she was trying to express through the action…but…
It was an action I didn’t want.
It was a color I would have never chosen.
It was a style I couldn’t pull off. (Glamour and Michelle just don’t go together!!)
I did thank her. Actually, we hugged, that’s how much we enjoyed one another’s company. I gave her a large tip for the time and effort spent…four hours! But…deep inside…I began to wonder why I couldn’t really let her know how I felt. Somehow, in my mind, it was wrong to let her know her controlling, audacious act had overstepped my boundaries. I was an object for her to show off her amazing talents. I was a glamour girl for her to uncover. And as lovely as it was…it wasn’t anything close to what I had asked for. It wasn’t me.
Then…I remembered my daughter…a few days before.
“But, Mags, it will look so lovely. Just a little bit of make-up. You’ll be surprised the difference it will make. Just let me show you. You’ll love it…trust me.” I didn’t understand why she acted as though I had violated her. It was just make-up! She could wash it off if she didn’t like it…
I was pushy.
I knew better than her.
I was controlling and forceful, but in a “nice” way…
(She should appreciate what I’m doing for her and understand how much better I am at choosing…)
“Trust me, honey.”
Stepping on people.
It’s never pretty.
Even when we think we know better…