Tommy Guns - Sartori Pastorale, Salami, and Arugula Grilled Cheese

When you move to New York, certain things change. Things that you once didn't think twice about become things that you loathe, things that you question, and things that you might just be slightly horrified by. You can no longer buy a bunch of groceries and shove them in the back of your car that your parents paid for and drive home in the air conditioning without sweating your ass off. Using the word y'all directly indicates that you're not from around these parts. And getting your hair did is not something that was once a cheap and relaxing alternate route to happiness. No, these things, among others, aren't that important but really do take some getting used to.

The hair thing though, man, that was tough. Highlighting my hair used to be a quick, no-questions-asked way to perk me up and make me feel better about myself. Take the following scenarios for example: Breakup with a boy - get your hair dyed! Fail an exam - get your hair dyed! Crash that car that your parents paid for - get your hair dyed! Why? I have no idea, but I do know that this remedy was probably a lot better than the tanning craze that most of my fellow Floridian idiots were completely obsessed with plagued by. So this little vanity addiction, for me, was A-OK. 

But when I moved up here and brutally realized that a quick little visit to the salon was about 4 times the price compared to down South, I quickly decided that I might not be able to afford being a blonde anymore. So with that, the mission to find my real hair color began. Sounds exciting, huh? Yeah, not at all. My real hair color is a murky dishwater blonde that profoundly resembles the color of a sun bleached raccoon. I hate it and when I go back to Florida it's an easy marker for my old buds to guage how