Jason, where art thou?

My stylist has gone missing. Well, not missing exactly. In fact, I know exactly where my stylist is:

Not working at Liquid any longer.

Due to circumstances beyond me, which are presumably none of my business, my dear, sweet, devoted stylist Jason is all of a sudden, no longer employed at the salon that has been my home for the duration of this project.

We ran into one another the street the other day, while I was getting my morning coffee. He seemed upset, so I tried my best to quell my reaction to this truly disastrous news. When he said, "I no longer work at Liquid," I said, "Oh, okay. Well, where do you work now?" I tried to play it cool. I, in fact, even offered my support to my dear, sweet stylist/friend. "There, there," I counseled, "when it's time to move on, it's just time to move on. These things are usually for the best."

What I thought, but did not say: "Your ass best be moving on soon, honey. In a week, I'm going to have roots down to my cheekbones. And when that time comes, you'd better have a chair."

That time has come. It's undeniable. My roots are like a line of dark, glaring brown, drawn beneath my light, yellow hair, marked there as if to emphasize the fact that my color is fake, fake, fake. I've been in denial about it, lying to myself really, pretending the roots "blend" and "look okay". But today, they seem to have grown beyond the pale. I measured them: they are an inch and a half long. They scream for attention, and where am I to turn?

What the hell am I going to do???