I have known wet dogs that smell better than I do right now.
My head is saturated with a vile concoction of radioactive chemicals; a thoroughly offensive brew known as Caramel Apple Glaze. Once every six weeks, I break out a fresh box, causing my family to pinch their noses and run for cover.
You can be assured that once you buy that first, innocent looking box, you’re hooked. You’ll either be Carmel Apple Glazing your head each month for the rest of your life, or risk being seen in public with your roots showing.
Yeah, like that’s going to happen in my lifetime.
A friend of mine, who at the age of forty-three has brown hair that has, by some freak of nature, not been touched by frost yet. She asked me why I went through all of the muss and the fuss. Why didn’t I just grow old naturally?
I asked her, if God is in the business of counting hairs on heads, do you really want to have your roots showing? She’s still thinking on that one. Wait until she gets that first silver thread … she’ll be Caramel Glazing right along with me.
I don’t care how nice and easy they say it is – they are lying. There is nothing either nice, or easy, about dousing the back of your own head with flammable chemicals. I know contortionists that can’t twist themselves into knots like a person trying to color their hair.
I sometimes wonder, while bent at the waist, and looking upside down through my own legs into the mirror, how many women are admitted to the emergency room each year with simply gorgeous hair, and a sprained back.
The directions will tell you to be careful not to get the chemicals on your skin. After ten years of faithful colorings, I still question whether this is actually possible. When I color my hair, I also color my skin, my clothing, the bathroom sink, the wall, and any passers-by who have had the misfortune of coming within a ten-foot radius of the bottle.
Come to think of it, maybe that’s why they make it smell so bad; like a skunk, my odor says, “Stay away from me, I’m dangerous.” As long as I smell worse than their last science experiment, the children are safe; they’re not coming anywhere near me, and they prefer that I stay away from them as well.
I think that they might rather starve than have me emerge from my bathroom to prepare their dinner. In fact, last month they called Meals on Wheels for delivery, and explained their dilemma; they offered their sympathies, but refused to come to the house until I rinsed my head.
Luckily, my husband came home before they called in the Red Cross. When they told him I was threatening to come out and cook, he shooed them outside to the car and took them out for pizza. I had the house to myself for a whole hour.
So, in a way, hair color is really a little vacation in a box. Until your timer dings, you are untouchable. It’s a beautiful thing.
Speaking of timers, there goes mine. I guess that means my vacation is over. It was a fine thing while it lasted, in spite of the smell and the mess, but at least I have next month to look forward to.
Of course, I could always take another thirty to highlight.
Bravo! This reminded me of the time I did a facial and my 4 year old son discovered my face caked in green. After he asked what was on me, I explained it was to make me more beautiful. He stared hard a moment, then finally shook his head and replied, "Nope, I just don't think it's working yet."