My hair is turning gray, and I don’t like it much. When I was in high school I said I would never dye my hair when I was older. I wanted to grow old gracefully. Well, the hell with that. Miss Clairol and I get together every now and then and we have ourselves a little home beauty spa.
I still have enough of my original color to get away with using semi-permanent dye, which means I can save some money and do it myself. The semi-perm stuff doesn’t leave roots, either. It’s hard to find the right shade when you are not an expert, but with a little trial and a lot of error, I figured out that mixing two colors together gets me a pretty good match to my own non-gray color.
Now normally I like to do this when my hair is freshly cut, because I have very thick hair, and one bottle is barely enough to kick that stubborn gray to the curb. If my hair is too long, well, there just isn’t enough dye, and those dry ends like to soak up all the color. I’ve been having a little trouble connecting with my hairdresser lately, however. The result is that the weight of my hair has pushed it down on top, and the curls are all growing out at the sides. Sort of a Bozo look. A graying Bozo. I just couldn’t stand it anymore, and last week I hit the bottle.
When the two older kids were at their institution of lower learning, and the little guy was at preschool, the party began. You’re only supposed to leave the stuff on for a maximum of 20 minutes, but my wicked curls hold out for a full 30 before succumbing. The color may be semi-permanent on your head, but it’s plenty permanent on everything else, so I always cover my head while I’m waiting for the transformation to be complete. With a towel? A do-rag? No, no. Those would stain! I use a plastic grocery bag. A do-bag, if you will.
It’s a good look for me. I cover all my stinkin’ dye-soaked hair, and tie the handles on top of my head. Oh, yeah. Paris Hilton ain’t got nothin’ on me. I know fashion.
As I tied my stylish petroleum based “scarf” over my head, I noticed something bright red on my face, right by my ear. Oh geez! I must have bought the wrong color dye, and I really was going to look like Bozo! I double checked the bottles, and no, numbers 18 and 20, just like always. I poked at my scalp in a couple of other places, but the color was brown, just like it was supposed to be. With a hunk of wadded up toilet paper, I wiped off the red stuff.
Blood! This looked like blood! Where the heck was I bleeding from? Nothing hurt! Did I have some sort of mutant zit that had exploded when I rubbed in the hair dye? What would happen if the dye got into an open sore?
I couldn’t find any sign of injury or acne, so baffled, I decided my hair color was more urgent than my health, and I went into the kitchen to clean up while Miss Clairol worked her magic. As I put dirty dishes into the dishwasher, I absently scratched the base of my scalp. My finger came away bright red.
Good grief! I panicked. The dye must be having some sort of strange reaction! I ran into the bathroom and frantically ripped my do-bag from my head! I looked from my head in the mirror to the bag in my hand…the bag.
Crap. This wasn’t a grocery bag. It was a Target bag, and the red bulls eyes were run together in a bloody mess. I wasn’t going to look like Bozo, I was going to look like the Target dog.
I tossed the bag and jumped into the shower, frantically scrubbing out all the color, both the one I wanted and the one I didn’t. The water going down the drain looked like I must have been out slottering hogs all morning.
Now I know why my hair grows in this Bozo pattern…I am Bozo. It’s hard to believe somebody could be well educated and still be such an idiot, but they don’t teach you how to deal with gray sparklers in your part in business school. Too bad I didn’t have that on hidden camera. I’d like to play it back in about 20 years, recalling how gracefully I had grown old.