I Just About Dyed

This is the picture that started it all; orange striped, sun and salt ravaged hair. I didn’t realize how bad it really was until I saw this snap, I knew it was time to take measures into my own hands.

Every time I had gone to the salon to get my hair done it was mix a little of this with a little of that, slather it on and wait until the fumes either make you gag or pass out, wash it out and voila, a new you. Trying to find a jar lifter at Wal-mart the other day, I veered off course to the hair care product aisle. Clairol’s Perfect 10 in #4 Dark Brown looked as good as any so I took a chance. I even processed my roots longer than the strands, just like the finger snapping you-go-girl “Misch-El-lay” did seven months ago. Never once have I considered a career in hair dressing so I don’t know what possessed me to be one yesterday. My ego whispered, “You can handle that.”

In the time between getting Devin off to school and rustling D.J. and Maddy to rise and shine, I broke the seal, shook it up, and said a final good-bye to my Tony the Tiger do. I left the house with wet hair; I knew that it was dark.

OH – MY – GOSH!!! I think I’m going Goth!

It was black, as black as the dark side of the moon except for my roots, they were still brownish. I hit the mental panic button; visions of me with raunchy tats, multiple and painfully infected piercings and a new pale boyfriend who named himself Barnabas the Bloody on the back of his pieced-out, “hot” hog; saddlebags and thighs flapping in the wind as we tore up the asphalt.

I called my younger, infinitely cooler friend and begged her to take care of Miss Is so I could go get myself some emergency treatment, hoping for a magic ‘Razzle Dazzle’ to undo the do that I did.

I walked up to the counter noticing that if anybody there had hair color “problems” it wasn’t me. The quintet of girls running the desk could not find my appointment despite the fact that I had called a little over an hour ago.

One older girl (40-ish) asked, “Are you one of the models?”

Was there someone standing behind me? I couldn’t help but laugh, “That’s the first and the last time I think anybody would ask me that. No, I just made an appointment at – ” I checked the dialed list on my cell, “10:23”.

Multiple appointment logs in front of them and yet still no luck. I took the initiative and boldly peered over the counter, “There I am, that’s my phone number, but my name isn’t… whatever that says.”

So they took me back, sandwiched between two very senior gals getting their weekly set and asked what I’d like to do today. That was a loaded question. It’s like saying to a surgeon, “I thought I’d try the home-appendectomy kit and something just went pop and gushed.” I’m not saying that doing hair is equivalent, just that the end result would be the same… Not a good idea.

The cure for my accidental goth was worse than my mistake. Bleach and dye all over again with the warning that it could all break off. It became a question of being bald or being Morticia, I’ll take the morbid mermaid dress thanks.

Not to waste time or the appointment, I got a cut. Thoughts of razored, asymmetrical bobs skirted my courage but after letting Ms. Ego loose, who got me into this mess in the first place, I whimpered “Long layers, two inches off the bottom.”

Snip here, snip there, still fretting my non-matching roots. “Did you hear that?” My dresser asked.

“Nu-uh”

“I really like your color.” It was the stylist setting a perm just behind me. “It looks wonderful. Gorgeous color, Honey.”

Okay. I just got a compliment from someone wearing show-girl strength, metallic green and yellow eye shadow, severely plucked eyebrows, copper-toned A-line bob and a five o’clock shadow by noon. “Thanks.”

I have nothing to worry about.

Labels: Random Thoughts