I was born tow-headed blonde. By the time I was twelve my hair had morphed to ashy, mousy, blah-blonde. I was pretty sure that wasn't right. I had gorgeous white skin and green, green eyes. Surely I was supposed to be a redhead. My mother didn't agree. Dyed red hair looked "cheap" and my father would "throw me out of the house," she said. When I was nineteen I began what I'll call an interesting year, moving in with girlfriends as I worked (illegally-cough) at a bar. It took about three days before I realized my dad could no longer throw me out of the house and I took a trip to K-mart to buy some hair color. I was a little skittish on what to buy, so I went with the wash out stuff for awhile and got a feel for which reds were best.
After a couple of years and the birth of my son (I'm skipping some good stuff here which has nothing to do with haircolor.... we'll revisit "The Wonder Years" later) I longed for a permanent change. I made an appointment to get my hair colored, left my baby with my sweetie and drove joyfully, top down on the convertible, long hair blowing mousily in the wind, to the salon.
I should probably point out here that I never went to a salon. I never got my hair cut, only occasionally trimmed. Perms fell out under the weight (or slid out from the texture... never was sure which) so I typically just went my merry way with my big, long 90's hair teased out at the sides, just barely rid of the rooster bangs that were such a big hit for such a long time. Basically, I hadn't a clue what I was doing.
I arrived at the salon, met my stylist who looked about my age. Now, at 34 I would think, "Huh, new girl? No experience? I think not." But at 22? I was like, "A chick my own age to talk to! Cool!" The stylist handed me a big thingy of false hair in various shades of red and I chose what I thought to be a tasteful yet intense shade, sure to match my vibrant personality and offset my eyes. The stylist dyed, rinsed, and blew my hair dry, combing it out, looking a little wide-eyed as she worked, and turned me to face the mirror.
I gasped. I had thick bangs, straight across and a long fall of thick, straight hair. All of it was bright. Finally. I would never blend into a crowd again. I shook my head and watched all that bright hair ripple over my shoulders, waving down my back. I paid the girl and trotted out to my car where I spent five minutes admiring my vibrant self in the rearview mirror. I put the top down again, fastened all that hair into a ponytail, and drove off. When I got out of the slow city traffic and began crossing the Nitro/St. Albans city bridge, I caught a glimpse of something in the rearview. My car was on fire! But no, it was my hair flaming away like that in the wind.
Oh. God.
When I pulled up to Rich's apartment he was outside with my baby, blowing bubbles off the front balcony to make Kevin laugh. I got out of my car and, I swear, I could hear him gulp. Kevin stared like I was a cartoon Mommy now. His little hand went right to my hair, twining it through his fingers, fascinated. Rich looked at me and said, "It's a little bright, isn't it?" That was when I knew I was in trouble.
I went home and took a long, hard look in my own mirror. I brushed all my hair out and then pulled it all up into a bun on top of my head, thinking maybe it wouldn't look so bad concentrated. It was so orange I kept being surprised that it wasn't burning my face off. My mother saw it and gasped, "What did you do?" My dad, contrary to popular opinion, merely said, "Hey, did you do something with your hair?" and went on his way.
At this point, I knew I could NOT appear on Monday morning in my corporate workplace with toxic orange hair. I called the Salon of Insanity but they had closed, probably as soon as they saw me drive away. (That salon went bankrupt shortly after this. I wasn't surprised.) So I pulled on a hat and went to the drugstore for damage control. I figured I could buy something darker and more conservative to put over the carrot.
The drugstore yielded a great surprise! Hair stripper! It was just what I needed. Get the nuclear orange out and start over. Genius. I bought the box of stripper and then picked up a more sensible color of red hair dye for use after the noxious color was removed. I headed for home with joy in my heart, flames again shooting around behind my head in the open air.
I read the directions. I swear my hand to God, I read the directions. I rinsed the stripper out earlier than directed when the crunchiness began to worry me. I rinsed and rinsed and rinsed, my long hair turning blonder and finally, a sickly yellow before my eyes. I ignored it as best I could and tried to drown out the sound of crunching by dousing my head with a bottle of conditioner. I got it in my right eye and sat winking, head hanging into the tub, praying I wouldn't have to carry off a Sinead O'Connor look.
After the final rinse and a slow, ginger comb out, I took stock, took a deep breath, and decided the new red ought to neatly cover what could now only be called hay-hair. I left the new color on only ten minutes. When I had it dried and combed out again, it was pink. But only from the ears down. The top of my head was bright yellow. I looked like a clown, a scary clown you might catch smoking a cigarette out of a frowny-painted mouth at a run-down traveling carnival.
I began to panic.
Sunday morning I skipped church for my mother's sake. I did, undoubtedly, look "cheap."
I debated not going to work, but when I called in my manager informed me I couldn't take off for a bad hair day. So I picked out a full-skirted dress and a wide-brimmed hat, pinned securely to my head with bobby pins. I faked an air of confidence that the wide-brimmed hat was totally appropriate in the workplace while, between all my incoming calls from clients, I frantically dialed beauty salons looking for one open on a Monday and where someone, anyone, could fix my poor, frazzled hair. Finally, I managed to get someone who could take me if I could get there immediately. I begged out with my office manager by pulling her into the ladies' and showing her what was under my hat. I left for the salon with her laughter ringing in my ears.
The stylist was kind. She didn't laugh at me (to my face-- who could blame her if she laughed with her husband later?) but she did fix my hair. To this day, I don't know exactly what she did, but when I left that salon I had relatively soft, medium brown hair.
The next morning I had flowers delivered to the woman with a note thanking her for my ability to go to work bare-headed.
In the last decade, I've again been every shade of red, settling in the last couple years on a nice, bright coppery color that I need to refresh every four weeks to maintain. I love my hair vibrant red. There are days when that hair makes me feel like my name should be Veronica, like I'm a dangerous woman to know. A spy, perhaps, or an elite member of the international jet-set. But every four weeks when I break out the box of color and comb out my hair in preparation, I remember my first permanent dye job. And slipping my hands into the gloves, I giggle.
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