This is unequivocally my husband’s fault. Which is in itself, ironic.
A few months ago I shelled out the cash to get a new hair cut, and a professional dye job. I went from nearly waist length hair to jaw length and from my natural muddy brown to purple. And I love it. Except the color faded with astonishing speed.
And I love color. I have had nearly every color applied to my hair that you could imagine – professional color, Miss Clairol, reductions of beet juice, and Kool-Aid. You name it and it’s been combed through. Purple, red, blue and more, in eye popping tones. The only color I have never done? Black.
So when my color faded, I thought nothing of it and hit the Manic Panic.
Not purple enough.
Bleach. (My first time!) Yikes.
That? So not a look for me.
Moving on with a different brand of purple.
Much better. A nice, dark, vibrant purple. More like what I was shooting for.
I was perfectly happy with it.
But by then my hair was growing longer than I wanted it. So I went to a small, independent salon for a cut instead of going to Ulta where I’d had it chopped to begin with. I will never be doing that again.
Walking out all I could think of was the Simpsons episode where Marge and Homer hire a babysitter that the kids later see on America’s Most Wanted.
Sometime, right about then my husband started making responsible person noises. Now these noises are not his native tongue, so when he makes the effort, I listen.
Do you think you should go out there and meet all those people like that? Maybe you should dye your hair brown?
“Out there” is San Diego. “Those people” would be the entire team of people I do the majority of my contract work for. They like me. They are reliable and pay me well. They even gave me an unexpected holiday bonus, even though I technically don’t work for them. And the trip is all expenses paid.
But brown? Really? I snorted. Pfffft. I’m fine. My work speaks for itself and they are happy with it.
But he kept periodically dipping into responsible person speak. Out of the blue. And it wore on me. It was like coming to listen to the voices in my head. The voice kept talking about suits. And the president of the company. And the guy who put his neck on the block to get me the job.
So off we went to purchase dye stripper and a nice auburn brown dye.
Dye stripper first. The instructions say my hair should turn a muddy yellowish orange. That means this:
was not supposed to happen.
It was actually kind of pretty. Had it not been for the light brown roots, I would’ve kept it.
I mean the trip. Were it not for trip, I would’ve left it.
Two hours later it was dry enough to dye, but I did not have high hopes that the dye would color over the blue. Slap it on extra thick, give it an extra 20 minutes.
Last night, while it was still wet, it looked like it took, but darker than I’d anticipated.
And now, finally, in the light of the early morning I can see what I’ve ended up with.
So there’s 5 hours of my life I won’t get back. And those are the only ones I am willing to sacrifice.
I’ll be getting on the plane with the purple locks, responsible person be damned.
I will, however be sporting a suit.