Color Me Stupid
How did I end up with orange hair you ask?
Well my friend, take a seat and let me tell you a story about love, betrayal, tragedy and redemption…
It all started when I decided to cheat on my hairdresser. Now, before you judge me too harshly, I had a super good reason for my infidelity. You see, he started dating my arch rival: My nemesis; The twang to my ying/Yyang; The Lex Luthor to my Superman. I tried to keep seeing him, but it was all too awkward. Words were exchanged, and now an uncomfortable haze surrounds our once perfect relationship. Sadly, our sweet love had been soured.
Flash forward. Six weeks later my roots started showing. My blonde locks had muddy canals of mousy brown flowing through them. It was awful.
So, I decided to save myself $150 (and the discomfort of beginning a new relationship with another stylist) and I bought a box of grocery store hair lightener. At a cost of $9.99, what could go wrong?
The moment I got home I set up my countertop laboratory and began mixing my potion. It was crazy, mad-scientist fun! Once concocted, I applied the noxious-smelling cream to my head. Thirty minutes later, and feeling quite proud of myself (thank you very much), I rinsed the goo from my cranium.
If Jean Harlow and an Oompah Loompah mated, this would be their offspring’s hair color. In shocked horror I stared at my reflection. I posed side-ways, did the backwards-holding-another-mirror thing and even squinted my eyes. No matter how I looked at it, there was no denying the dying. I was a freak. Did I mention, in 48 hours I had a photo shoot with a fancy photographer? Yeah – good times.
With few options left and tears filling my eyes, I freakin’ lost it! I grabbed the half-empty bottle of liquid shame and doused my tresses with the remaining chemicals. I was ALL-IN, baby! Gagging and choking on the football helmet of fumes that circled my noggin, I waited 10, 15, 20 minutes. I rinsed, conditioned and toweled dry. My fate was to be determined by my bathroom mirror. It was “go” time.
The towel hit the floor and my hairdryer was brandished. Moments later, I was face to face with the new me. My mane was now a little less Tropicana and a skosh more Kool-Aid orange. Not entirely offensive, but enough to leave me shaking my head in cold consolation.
My 6-year-old, waving away the offensive odors that now filled the house, assured me that I looked, “Beee-utiful!” This helped a bit, and I feigned belief for his sake. Note to self: Make an eye appointment for Aiden ASAP. We hugged and I surrendered to the sofa to read the promised Dr. Seuss book: “Oh the Places You’ll Go!” Prophetic words indeed, Mr. Geisel!
So, what happened with my fancy photography session, you ask? I went through with it – cartoon locks and all. I am hoping she is able to Photoshop out the carroty hue. We’ll see. I do know I have to find another hairdresser. I’m thinking one who is female and, therefore, break-up proof. Then I’ll never wind up looking like this again. Here’s hoping.