The Perils Of Artificially-Enhanced Hair

Much to my husband’s surprise, most of the women we know artificially “enhance” their hair color (i.e. have a dye job). Many have been doing it for years, starting in their teens when the temptation to make your hair more attractive takes hold. So I believe many ladies can relate to the following moment of fright:

The magic potion consisting of bleach with other unpronounceable, industrial-strength chemicals, has been mixed and applied to your hair, either by you (a cheap method), a friend (also a cheap method), or a stylist (the expensive method). The requisite waiting period has elapsed and the solution has been rinsed from your hair. The towel is about to come off. The nerves kick in: will your hair look as described (by the box or stylist), will it be off a little, or will it be the stuff nightmares are made of?

A few nights before my wedding, eons ago, I had a stylist color my hair. She made my light brown hair blond. So blond that my fiancé could only stare and point at it. In a panic, I went back to the stylist and she made everything all better (translation: darkened it so my hair wasn’t the color of straw).

Over the years, I’ve my hair myself and it’s been…ok. I would usually have a glass of wine to calm my nerves before I painstakingly painted highlights in my hair. Except for a few times when I had to use an extra box of colorant to even out the highlights (comment from my husband, “Why is your head two-toned?”), the results were usually fine.

Until the other night.

Let me backtrack a bit. A few months ago, I switched to an all-over haircolor (“because I’m worth it”). I figured it would be faster and easier. It was. Until I forgot to note the shade I used. Fast-forward to a week ago when I bought what I thought was the right shade.

I followed the directions, putting the color on the new hair growth for 20 minutes. Then I applied it all over for the last 5, waited, and washed it out. Even had I been convinced it was the right shade, I would have been a little nervous. Doubt just enhanced my fear.

I got out of the shower, toweled off, looked in the mirror, and almost PASSED OUT when I saw I hade a blond yarmulke! Breathing deeply, I went from mirror to mirror looking to see if perhaps the light was playing tricks on me. In desperation, I called in my husband who had been calmly playing Monopoly with our son in Junior’s room. I wanted just my husband (Junior thought mom was “conditioning” her hair – do the kids have to know EVERYTHING about me?!). He naively brought the boy with him.

DH’s jaw dropped. Apparently “in sickness and health” doesn’t cover “in case of a bad dyejob.” My son looked shocked and quickly averted his eyes. “You’re gonna fix that, right? You know you’re hair is two colors, right?” said my spouse. “Mom, I think you’re beautiful no matter what you look like,” whispered my angelic son. “I guess I should fix it, huh?” I said to no one in particular. “GO, NOW!” said my ever-supportive husband.

So ski-cap on my head and pants under my nightgown, with coat thrown over the ensemble, I dashed off to the nearest CVS (thank you location on S. Livingston Avenue) to get another box of dye.

By the time I got back, my hair had dried a bit and, miraculously, the yarmulke had disappeared. The hideous yellow color had muted into an acceptable brown. My husband inspected it. “How’d you fix it so fast?” he asked. “Um, I didn’t,” I said. “Do I still need to recolor?” “Nope. It looks fine” he said. And believe me, he would TELL me if I looked stupid. The boy has tact. After 18 years of marriage, the husband has none.

So I now have an extra box of what I KNOW is the right shade of haircolor in my closet. I look presentable. And, in 4 to 6 weeks, I’ll face the Perils Of Artificially-Enhanced Hair again. Because I’m worth it.