The photo to the left is of me; I am the round-headed baby, all fresh-faced and ready to learn about the world. For the most part I have been a quick learner, but I guess everyone takes continuing education courses nowadays, so I shouldn't feel too poorly for last Friday's refresher.
My college roommate can attest to how obsessed I was with my hair the entirety of my freshman year. There probably weren't three days between each time I picked up a pair of scissors to cut it, looking for a visible way to work out my plethora of issues. Ah, if only the world's problems could be cured as easily as cutting off the grey split ends of one's hair!
That's right. I said grey.
The summer before I went to college, I spent a good deal of time in the sun. I also spent a good deal of time fooling with my hair, perming it beyond recognition. What started out as a nice foofy white ball atop my head had become a lank, chlorinated-green poodle in need of a grooming. Pink or blue I'd had done before intentionally, but green was unflattering to my skin tone and that just would not do. So I locked my parents' upstairs bathroom and went to work armed with Clairol Ultresse, Platinum Blonde.
What made the impromptu dye job even more imperative was that I had fallen in love the month before with a gangly cyclist from the local liberal arts college. He had beautiful long hair and the cutest little John Lennon glasses and was just as nervous around me as I was around him. We had previously avoided a first date by hanging out with a mutual friend (and as is often the case, the mutual friend was crushed when we started dating), but tonight we were daringly forging ahead to the movies. So I couldn't go on this momentous date with green hair or I'd be mortified. What's worse, he might be mortified.
Fast forward to 20 minutes before the date, and I am madly washing and rewashing my hair. The Platinum Blonde did half the job--by turning my hair Platinum. Grey to be precise. I'm not talking "flat", "dull" or brown, I'm talking g-r-e-y. I had no idea what to do. I couldn't go ask my mother for help because she'd be upset that I'd done this in the first place. I couldn't call any of my girlfriends because they had already left for school. I didn't have any time. He was going to be here any minute and here I was looking like a granny with a bad hair day.
Eventually I did run down to ask my mother what to do. She followed through, true to form, and told me that I shouldn't have done it in the first place (well, duh!) and that it served me right. (I don't remember her laughing at the situation, which I think will probably be my first response when my daughter comes to me in the same predicament. Yes, I realize she will hate me; she is probably in my ovary hating me for it in advance and shaking her fist at the sky at this very moment. Such is the joy of karma.) She just made some comment about how she couldn't believe she was going to have to send me off to college "looking like this". The Robert Smith hairstyle with blue and pink streaks she didn't comment on. The fact that I had been wearing black clothes for three years made no impression upon her. But the grey hair, THAT got her attention.
As I was standing there talking to her, my date arrived. I remember opening the door and immediately starting to apologize. I think I even told him that it was ok if he didn't want to go out with me. He looked a little stunned and then he said, "No, it's ok, really. We can still go out...if *you* want to..." Long story short, I went on the date.
The grey hair, however, lasted longer than the summer fling did. My hair grows painfully slowly, and it took a good two years before the whole tragic mistake was cut out (thus the perpetual cutting that freshman year).
All of this back story is to set the framework for last Friday's debacle, wherein not having done a thing to my hair since last August, and whilest also feeling rather peaked about my appearance, I decided to once again take matters into my own hands. This time I thought I was being wise by choosing something that was semi-permanent (ie, will wash out) and closer to my natural hair color. Apparently I wasn't that wise, because I was blessed once again with grey hair.
Grey. Like Carol Kane's in The Princess Bride. Yes, I laughed when I saw it, even though I was sent into a similar panic as the last time. I could hear Bill's voice in my head pleading with me not to change my hair color again (he was kind about the color I had for the wedding, but it was easily the most brassy blonde I've ever been, and I think he had fears that I was considering another such fiasco). I could hear my mother's voice telling me that I shouldn't have done this in the first place. I also heard a voice telling me that perhaps if I styled it it wouldn't look so bad. It seemed like a good idea, so I tried it.
After a curling iron revealed that my hair was indeed still grey (big surprise), I assessed the situation to determine whom to call in as a reinforcement. I opted for Shelly, who has had the most brilliant shades of red, burgundy, pink and orange hair the whole time I've known her, because I figured if anyone would understand my plight so clearly it would be her. The choice was a good one because, while she laughed hysterically, she told me stories about other womens' hair trauma (one of which involved trying to hide a half bleached head with a sock stuffed into the side of a baseball cap) and soundly advised me to wash it a few times with dishwashing soap and if that didn't work to call Clairol (again, I should've learned my lesson about Clairol the last time).
Five washes later and I was on the phone with the Clairol 800 number. A pleasantly effeminate man answered the phone and, after asking me a series of questions about how this travesty could have occurred, politely said he needed to put me on hold, Honey. I said sure and had my hopes further buoyed when the hold music was Oleta Adams singing "Get Here If You Can" (hey, if you're going to have a hair emergency, your best friend is the gayest man you can find, and it helps if he's got Oleta, Patty or Aretha on hold, and I don't think that's unPC, thank you very much). However, in this case, Sweetie, he was unable to advise me about what to do, on account of the fact that, Child, you could do a lot more damage to your hair if you use another off-the-shelf Clairol product. In short, Girl, his advice was to seek a professional's help, because that grey part would have to be cut out.
So I called the professional who said she couldn't cut my hair until May 6 and was told that no, indeed, she can't fit me in for an emergency color consultation until she sees me to cut my hair. And even then we'll probably be looking at an appointment round about the beginning of June.
sigh
So I got off the phone and washed my hair some more. I even put vinegar on it because a link said that was how to get hair dye out of shag carpet, and after so many washes with dishwashing soap, my hair definitely felt like shag carpet. I think it helped a little, because the roots of my hair now look normal, but the ends of my hair are still holding onto the base color enough that they look grey. My outside source, Shelly, said it wasn't so much grey now and that when she saw it she "just thought it was more toned down than usual".
Somehow that sounds like there's an insult hidden in there, but I'm still laughing about it.
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