Humbled by My Ex (A Horror Story)
I was married to a hairstylist for a long time. An internationally recognized colorist, national educator for two iconic hair care brands, a cosmetology school owner, and a salon owner, I had the privilege of having fantastic hair for twenty years. Though divorced now for five years, we’ve managed to maintain a great relationship and successfully co-parent our kids despite our personal challenges. So, when I told him I wanted to go blonde, I anticipated him being in enthusiastic agreement and offer to help me achieve my lofty goal of going from a dark brunette to a bottle blonde. I was, instead, met with a firm, resounding, NO.
“Your hair will never go blonde. It’ll be warm. It’ll be brassy. In order to get your hair to the color blonde you want, your hair will literally be destroyed.” Disappointed, I sucked my teeth like a sullen child. What does he know, I thought. Of course I can have blonde hair. Kim Kardashian went from jet black to blonde in one salon visit! He’s just salty, I convinced myself. Pissed, I vowed to find someone who would give me the blonde hair I desired so I could prove his ass wrong.
Since going blonde from brunette is a multi-step process, I entrusted my beginning blonding session to founder of Shayology Studio in Glen Mills, Shay, who carefully weaved beautiful blonde highlights into my hair. Toned to perfection, she lifted me substantially enough that I could officially call myself blonde. Smug and self-righteous, I made sure to toss my new blonde locks around when I met up with my ex-husband for his weekend with the kids. “Hmpf,” I chided, “I couldn’t go blonde, huh?” I drove off overly pleased with myself, happy that I was right and he was wrong.
You couldn’t tell me shit that day.
I spent the next two months reveling in my new life as a blonde bombshell. My hair was soft and bouncy with a silky texture when blown dry. I didn’t even have to flat iron it! HA! I had proven my ex-husband wrong. I was blonde and my hair was in perfect condition. I decided to amp it up a little. I mean, if my hair was this healthy, why not go blonder? But the hefty $300+ price tag for what little hair I had had given me serious sticker shock. After all, I hadn’t had to pay for my hair to get done in twenty years! Had prices really gone up that much? I determined I was going to have to take things into my own hands. I had been married to a stylist and spent my entire career in the salon industry. I had seen hundreds, if not thousands, of highlights done — it didn’t look like it could be that hard. I got in my car and headed to Sally Beauty to get the supplies I’d need.
And that, my friends, is where the beginning of the end began.
Located at end of a strip mall next to Orange (foreshadowing, I can see that now) Theory, a smoothie place, and California Tortilla, I walked confidently into the beauty store. “Hi, there,” I said cheerfully to the pink haired person behind the register. “I want to bleach my hair platinum. Can you help?” Twenty minutes later, I left the store with 30 volume lightener and bleach, and a toner that (she promised) would cool any warmth revealed during the blonding process. Once home, I gloved up like an ER surgeon, my urgency to reveal the blonder version of myself draining any and all common sense from my body.
I tore my foils, mixed the products, and prepared to play stylist on myself. I weaved thin strands of hair with the end of a rat tail comb, placed the foil, painted on the lightener, and then folded the pack like a pro. I was feeling good — this was easy peasy. I started a timer and, like a stylist, occasionally checked foils to see the level of lightness I was achieving. Once they appeared light and pure as the white, bright, distant sun on a winter day, I pulled the foils out, stuck my head in the sink, rinsed, shampooed, conditioned, rinsed again, and towel dried.
The color wasn’t what I expected.
Not even close.
It was slightly on its way to blonde (kind of?). It was MOST definitely warm (maybe I should have used 40 volume?) but I had anticipated that. But what I wasn’t prepared for were the weird colors that hadn’t quite lifted. There was highlighter yellow, orange, regular yellow, and some weird pinkish colored pieces. What in the fuck had happened? I had followed the instructions, used the right products — why wasn’t my hair blonde blonde? Maybe the toner will fix it, I lied to myself, surely the toner will turn my hair the gorgeous blonde I had set out to achieve. I quickly mixed it up and, praying to the gods of hair color, applied it.
You have to know what the outcome was at this point.
I rinsed the toner and my hair wasn’t blonde. Not even close.
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The toner hadn’t touched the warmth. In fact, it had instead turned the amalgamation of awful colors into even MORE awful colors (which I didn’t think was even possible). I blew my hair dry — maybe the heat will turn it blonde, I lied to myself — the disappointment growing with every dried section. OMFG, what did I do to myself? I put on a hat, ran down the stairs and yelled, “I’ll be right back,” to Rob and the kids, quickly closing the door behind me. I jumped in the car and drove at a brisk speed back to Sally Beauty, hat pulled low over my eyes. I swung the door open and instead of the pink haired goddess behind the register, there was someone else. “Hi. Um, the other girl who works here told me what products to buy and I did exactly what she suggested and my hair turned out like this.” I sheepishly removed my hat, revealing the disaster. She didn’t bat an eyelash which was simultaneously comforting and alarming (she must see this a lot). “Oh, you just need blue shampoo and conditioner. It’ll tone down the brassiness.” Her relaxed, nonchalant reply eased my anxiety and I walked out with $40 worth of blue stuff and what was left of my ego.
I went home, rewashed and conditioned my hair with the blue magic stuff that was supposed to help me gain some self-respect, and then applied a masque that was supposed to prevent breakage from all the bleaching I’d done. While I waited for the masque to work, I filled the time searching TikTok videos on how to fix brassy blonde highlights. I was, instead, met with salon professionals admonishing me for even trying to do my hair myself. I deserved this. Who did I think I was? I’m not a hairstylist. When my timer went off I rinsed my hair hoping for the best but Greg Brady’s reflection was looking back at me.
Deeply humbled at this point, I texted my ex.
His response was as I had anticipated.
My ex has a personality that you either love or hate. He has a shirt that says, “Sarcasm is my middle name,” and it’s not even the slightest exaggeration. Regardless of the seriousness of a situation, his responses often drip with irreverence not rooted in malice but in his “funny” way of dealing with life.
This wasn’t funny.
I told him what was going on with my hair and he walked me through how I could fix it and, instead of sending me back to Sally Beauty, offered me products from his salon to use. I went home and meticulously followed every step. The result?
I sent a text thanking him for his help and, of course, his response was in typical fashion.
And then I was pleasantly surprised. The laughing emoji was replaced with a heart and an unusually normal response.
Moral of the story: The stylist is always right.
JK. The moral of the story is, just because you can doesn’t mean you should. No matter how “right” you think you are, there is always a possibility that you’re wrong. And, it’s okay to ask for help and guidance when you’re outside of your wheelhouse (even if it means humbling yourself).
(And, for the record, he was right. My hair is so damaged. LOL!)
Thanks for reading. :)
Originally published at https://heathersahagian.substack.com on August 15, 2026.
