There are over 20 shades of light to medium brown hair dyes. Warm, cool, non-metallic, ash, bronzed or with a hint of red. I have rebel hair though and it processes the chemicals in its own whimsical way. I know this in the same way that I know it is impossible for my hands to make less than 42 servings of rice when I meant to make only 2.
I’ve been a dark blonde/light caramel for a little while and really liked it, but it was fading quickly. Armed with the last used box top, I went and picked up the next shade darker. According to the “possible outcome” pictures on the box, it was just a hair (ha) darker. Subtle, unnoticeable, perfect. Nobody would probably even notice a difference.
Stupid rebel hair.
After trying to avoid confirmation in the mirror, I pulled the stupid newly dyed locks up into a ponytail so I couldn’t even see it in my peripheral vision.
I went to pick the kids up from school. They piled in the car and began to look at me to tell me about their day, I saw looks of amusement, horror and that same look you get when you open a Tupperware in the fridge and see that it was peas from two weeks ago. They quickly averted their eyes and whispered among themselves. They know better than to discuss my frequent hair changes and you never poke a snarling beast.
Then The husband came home. He doesn’t fear the snarling beast and he is cursed with bluntness.
“It’s really dark. I don’t like it that dark.”
I was standing in the kitchen with a plastic bowl in my hand. I promptly stuck it on my head, covering my hair to save him from the dye disaster.
“I don’t like it either. Can we not talk about it?” (This was probably not uttered as nice as I remember it now)
“You know this always happens to your hair.”
Thanks for pointing it out and jiggling the self-esteem troll in my head.
“I can’t do anything about it right now. Quit staring at me. Look away. Stop smirking. Oh My Sweet 8lb 6oz Baby Jesus…stop looking at me.”
I fled to our bedroom…well, my bedroom right now because he’s not welcome while I’m in the throes of hair despair.
He followed and I turned the lights out.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m hiding here in the dark so you can’t see my hair. You can’t judge me in the dark. My dog is here, laying on the bed and he still loves me. He’s colorblind and still loves me. My hair is so dark I’m like a chameleon in the black of the room. I’m not here. You can’t see me.”
He then proceeds to tell me a supposedly funny story about a woman with schizophrenia that always changed her look to suit who she was at that moment.
“Who are you?” He snickered.
“Well, I used to be Suzy Homemaker, but now I am Black Haired Brenda. I’ve killed Suzy Homemaker and you can make you own dinner from now on.”
This black hair might not be so bad now that I am perusing Take Out menus that don’t contain 42 servings of rice.
Categories: October 2013 entry