A few months ago, I had what you might call a hair disaster. Now disaster may seem like a big, melodramatic word, but let's consider that I walked in Astor Place with normal hair, requested subtle red-brown highlights, and walked out with platinum blonde streaks.
I was not meant to be blonde, and particuarly not platinum blonde. In fairness, I do not think my haircutter spoke English, so confusion was perhaps inevitable. Her name was Flor [do not request her at astor place] and somehow, subtle red-brown got translated to chunky platinum blonde.
But now I'm back--and newly updated with cinamon streaks! This is all thanks to Fran [ask for her when you go to Astor]. I was always pretty sure that blondes didn't really have more fun. Now, after four months as a blonde, I can confirm: being blonde does not guarantee more fun.