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Last week I related an unfortunate episode involving me, a pair of kitchen scissors, a Bad Hair Day, and the mistaken belief that I had hairdressing skills.
Happily, a hairdresser quickly rectified my self-imposed disaster with what is known as a ‘repair cut’. In the end, nothing was lost but several centimetres of hair, a couple of hours, and a considerable amount of self esteem.
Sadly, however, more disaster was to come.
You see, I wasn’t satisfied with the discovery that I couldn’t cut my own hair. I had to take it one step further, and discover that I couldn’t colour my own hair, either.
I have previously put rich brown rinses in my own hair without any great ill effect (except on the towels, my clothes, the bathroom tiles and my skin). Over the years, however, the cumulative effect of all of these rinses was to turn my hair such a ‘rich’ shade of brown that it could accurately be referred to as ‘black’.
I didn’t want to be black anymore. I wanted to be a fetching shade of red. Chestnut, perhaps. Maybe even burgundy. Just not black. So I bought a new rinse, a red rinse, a rinse that promised to lighten my entire hair and give it beautiful, deep cherry highlights.
Well. Promise, promises. After carefully applying the product to my head, rinsing, conditioning, and rinsing again, what I ended up with was an inch of bright red roots, with the rest of my hair even blacker than before.
It was time to admit defeat.
I returned to the hairdresser, tail between my legs (metaphorically speaking. I don’t actually have a tail, though if I did, I would no doubt have trimmed it and dyed it black by now).
“Please fix me!” I cried.
“Again?” the hairdresser responded.
This time Anthony (a self-proclaimed ‘genius with colour’) set to work on my two-toned hair. First he bleached all the colour out, leaving me with bright orange frizzy hair and praying that a fire alarm wouldn’t sound and I’d be forced to evacuate the salon looking like a demented orang-utan.
Then he set to work, toning here, colouring there, until I emerged with red-brown hair, resplendent with hues and highlights. I looked magnificent.
I drove home with head held high (metaphorically speaking. It’s not like it can go anywhere else). Until I walked in the door.
“What the hell have you done?” my husband asked. “I liked you with black hair!”
So it’s back to the supermarket I go.
(And after the supermarket I’m off on holidays, so I’ll see you guys in a couple of weeks!)
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