So, yesterday, I went and had myself a "hair facial" at the day spa. My hair stylist promised me that it would be a lovely, relaxing, deep-conditioning experience with bonus aromatherapy and scalp massage. Considering that my hair was falling out in handfuls all year, and is now growing back (leaving my head covered with these two inch long sprouts of gray hair - three kids! I blame them!) I should be totally happy, yet my scalp has decided that it hates me, and is now flaking off in chunks.

It isn't like dandruff, no. It is more like breakfast cereal. Which, you know, isn't very attractive.

I headed into the salon with my new favorite accessory, the paper bag, firmly over my head. After my stylist didn't recognize me, I removed the bag, and we had a good laugh.

No, I didn't do that, but it would have been awesome.

Instead, I got to fill out a little form that asked about my emotions, and my stress level, and some other questions that I don't remember, and then settled back and tried not to make eye-contact with myself in the giant mirror.

The first part of the process was a heated neck wrap thingie, followed by the poncho thing. Okay. Then, I was instructed to close my eyes and breathe deeply three times. I managed two shuddering breaths before I started to giggle. There is nothing worse than being told to relax when you are draped in a water-resistant poncho and you've got the sillies.

With eyes still scrunched shut, I felt my stylist applying some sort of oily stuff to my scalp, and opened one eye. My mouth was twitching at the corners, and feeling like a naughty child that isn't sleepy at all, I closed my eyes again. The scalp massage started, and I found that I wasn't able to keep my eyes shut any longer. I opened them halfway, and watched as my stylist massaged my now well-oiled scalp and roots. This caused the dry hair to puff around my head into strange, lion-mane type configurations.

The massage felt really good, and I had to focus on not drooling or sleeping, which, in hindsight is probably not something I should have shared with my stylist. She told me that if I started drooling, she would ask me to do it outside, and if I fell asleep, she'd just tuck me in a corner of her station on the floor, and wrap me up nicely in my little poncho. We were both howling with laughter at this point.

So much for the peaceful, meditative treatment, huh?

Then I got a good look at what this scalp massage was doing to my hair, and complimented her on her daring styling techniques. More laughing. I turned to another client, and asked her if she was jealous of my new look. She was confused. We laughed even harder.

Then came shampooing, conditioning, and then brushing and then more conditioning. Each stage involved some sort of weird head wrapping. By the time she pulled the small terrycloth towel off of my head and quickly put on a showercap and another terrycloth headwrap, and then shoved me under the dryer hood for 10 minutes, I was beside myself. Why, oh why didn't I bring my camera? The looks just kept getting worse from the other clients, because my stylist and I were having way too much fun.

As she brought the dryer hood down over my swaddled head, and brought me a glass of water, I was cracking myself up imagining installing some of those beer-hat drink holders with the straws onto the outside of the dryer helmet thing, and was snorting quietly (I think, but I was deafened by the blast of the heat, so maybe I was actually snorting loudly, which is even more funny) as I tried to read a People Magazine.

After she unwrapped my head, and began to blow it out, the tranformation was apparent. My hair looks amazing. I mean, you could shoot bullets at my head, and I would deflect them with a toss of my glossy mane. It is that much of a difference.

Can you just see that? Here come the bullets: bang bang bang! And then I toss my hair in slow-motion - wooosh, wooosh and the bullet ricochet off my gloss locks - ping! ping! ping! And then I smile seductively and toss my hair some more. And maybe lick my finger and touch my butt, making a sizzling sound.

I wonder if they offer a treatment to get me to act like a grownup instead of an eight-year-old boy?