How I convinced myself paying decent money to a human wielding a yellow blow dryer was worth its weight in gold. For the love of DryBar.
Posted on October 13 2015
DryBar. No. It does not involve prohibition. Just the eager toss of cold hard cash.
$40 plus tip. Not a huge amount of money. Not something I casually throw around either. Unless. Unless you make rock star promises and Disney type dreams come true. And thus...they do. With the guarantee of some thing called a Mai Tai or Southern Comfort. I give you DryBar.
I had heard the buzz. Seen the results. But never dipped my proverbial toe in the water. That is, until back to back business trips, including two speaking responsibilities AND a broken curling iron had me sadly concerned at the state of my coiffure.
My hair? Very dry. Very curly. Impossibly unruly. Slightly rebellious. Completely incapable of being tamed by me. And yes, sometimes hair DOES match personality. Ahem.
Add to that a hotel courtesy car...and a friend who books an appointment for you. What could I say?
Moment one. Enter the beautifully bright clean meticulously arranged salon. Moment two. Inhale the amazing aroma of what I now know is "DryBar smell". Moment three. Offer me a mimosa. Yes please. Sold. I drank the kool aide.
You choose from the menu your look. Tousled curls. Beachy waves. Southern lift. They promise to deliver without batting an eye. Your hair is washed. Finished with a cool rinse. And the drying process begins. My sweet girl....bless her heart....didn't realize the stubborn curl lurking under my hairs straight persona. Let's just say she earned her tip.
In 35 minutes I was dry. Straight. Smooth. With the perfect amount of curl and sass. I felt pretty and finished. But. The crowning defining moment was when my friend Julie....also a DryBar virgin...was whirled around to see her look in the mirror. Her genuine shriek of amazement followed by "OMG...I'm freaking beautiful!" caused smiles all round yellow blow dryer-ville. Honest. Endearing. Absolutely hilarious.
As I walked out of the DryBar virtually in a euphoric state....drunk on the smell of my own hair...I swore I would be back again next year.
Fast forward 4 days. My hair needed to be washed. I still had no tools. I had a free evening. And let's face it, the idea of having a driver just waiting to be at my beck and call. I did...as one does.
Decisions. Decisions. Champagne? Mimosa? Beachy waves? The Dirty Martini?
Oh DryBar. You had me at Mai Tai.