Adventures in Hair Color
Though it might appear from previous writings that I am a woman incapable of handling herself, I assure you this could not be further from the truth. I am in control, not of my heroin-like sugar addiction, but I am in control of my life. Even in the midst of quarantine and gross lack of pedicure, I am holding it together. That being said, everyone has their limits. And mine begin with coiffure.
Today finds me standing in my bathroom clutching a box of Herbatint and wondering if this is pandemic rock bottom. I am about to color my own hair. The thought of this frightens me more than a first time viewing of The Shining. Coloring one’s own hair?
Oh honey, no.
But the current options for root touchups are scarce.
On her never-ending quest to save us from toxic chemicals, Diane discovered Herbatint. She has been dragging it to the salon and forcing her beloved colorist, Derrill, to use it in place of his normal salon grade hair dye system. Derrill is a man of great strength and patience; and as yet, he has not fired her as a client.
I have been frantically texting Derrill in attempt to bribe him with tacos, cash, a boat, anything, to meet me in the driveway at 2 AM for a clandestine color exchange. No dice. However, he was willing to walk me through it on the phone. Herbatint is available on Amazon, he has seen it in action, and thus he suggests this as my play. Cue the train wreck.
I engaged the Hot Urologist as my assistant. However, I overzealously began the painting process while he was in the middle of performing a kidney stone surgery. The words “poor planning” come to mind. I succeeded in shellacking my scalp as far as I could and then stalled out because, newsflash, you cannot see the back of your own head. I texted the Hot Urologist requesting his ETA. 15-20 minutes. Not good. The only other human available was the four-year-old on the floor behind me who was busy working out some kind of elaborate dinosaur reenactment. I asked him if he would like to help CatCat. “Nope.” Though he did offer the encouragement that my hair looked, “not real bad.”
I contorted into positions I have never achieved in yoga while slapping hair paint wherever. When the Hot Urologist finally appeared at the door, he took a surgical look at the rearview mess and made corrections. I then sat in Jurassic Park and waited.
Roots are now mostly a normal brown color, which was the goal. My hair did not catch fire; I did not blind myself; I am not bald. I did “mess up” a corner of the dino village, which did not end well, but otherwise I am still alive.
I went through this process once more roughly three weeks later. I also gave Diane an Herbatint ride in her backyard (she has a newly renovated bathroom, so no chances could be taken with stain). Though I did enjoy her squealing as I rinsed her with extremely cold water from the garden hose, everything else about the “color your own hair” experience sucked royally and has given me pause.
Can we please all board the WEAR A DAMN MASK wagon? Because I feel reasonably certain that self Botox may not end well.
Bonus photo of Diane pre garden hose rinse.
