My roots are currently more than an inch, less than a foot... so I know tonight's the night to hit the bottle. Of hair dye that is!
My hair's been through alot in one lifetime. Surviving the eighties alone should earn it some sort of medal. The biggest relief to my beauty routine was the ushering in of the 21st century's "natural is in" trend. Yay, I don't have to perm or tease the life out of my poor follicles anymore!
No gel, mousse or 1/4-inch barrel curling irons can be found anywhere near my hair these days (or my house for that matter.) I'm not even sure I could scrape up a stray bottle of hairspray in my bathroom if I were, for some ridiculous reason, ever in dire need of it. Soft hair came back! (It better be here to stay...)
My hair hasn't crunched in almost two decades now. No kidding! Touch it. TOUCH it! (You won't lose a hand in there anymore. I swear!)
But, the dye will never die.
I've been coloring my hair since the age of 16. With a meager allowance, I started out using straight peroxide mixed with water in an old hair spray bottle. This was 1990 and the days of Sun-In. I would apply my concoction (on top of permed hair, yikes!) Then, instead of wasting time sitting out in the sun, I would stick my head right under the blow dryer. Check the mirror. Eh, we can do better... and repeat the process multiple times until all visible hairs were properly brassy.
Yeah, my head stank like the nurse's station, but I fit right in beside my Sunned-In friends without anyone being any wiser. (We'd bleached all the wisdom out of our heads by then.)
My first experience with a "real" at-home dye kit came the following year. Age 17, my first time applying plastic glove to applicator tip and shaking gently. (This was also my first time applying brown splotches to the wallpaper in my parents' bathroom.) And so, my natural hair color was never to be seen again. (Unless we're counting that top inch of mane that crops up every couple of months.)
Since that day I've been everything from blonde to strawberry blonde to orange to reddish to all-shades-of-brown-but-the-natural-kind to black. In my twenties it was almost like an Olympic-worthy event. I would change my hair as often as once a month. I liked to keep my on-lookers on their toes.
I even went one year insistent on having the opposite hair color of the season. Meaning dark hair in the summer, light in the winter, red in the spring instead of fall. You get it? Ooh. Such a rebel I was. I don't remember what brought that on. It could have been the miswiring in me that always wants to be different than everybody else. Or, it could have just been the simple fact that the Clairol bottles go on clearance when they're out of season. (Did I mention, I'm cheap?)
Whatever the case, consider me the guinea pig and trust me that it's near impossible to keep your hair dark in the summertime. Especially if you spend alot of time outdoors like I do. It's not rebellious, it's just plain stupid. The sunlight doesn't tend to make your hair any darker!
There was a day when it was impolite for a woman to admit her hair color was fake. Now everybody dyes and nobody cares. Everyone also seems to pretend that they've been dying their hair for so long that they "can't even remember what my natural hair color is."
They're liars. I can remember with great confidence what color my natural hair is. That's why I keep dying it, duh.
People politely refer to those with my natural coloring as "mousy brown". That brings up the cute depiction of cartoon Disney mice. Real mousy brown hair is the color of real mice. The mice you find in the sewers or rooting through your trash on garbage night. With no depth or real color shading the hue. Not dark and rich enough to be milk-chocolatety. Not light and warm enough to be coined as golden. Real mousy brown hair is the color of tree bark. Not cartoon tree bark. That real tree bark that is currently peeling off the oak in the backyard. Colorists call it "ash" brown. Dull and lifeless. So dull it can almost be mistaken for gray. (Sadly, my grayish brown natural hair is also now streaked with actual silver.)
Tonight I tried the newest fad in hair coloring. No-drip "sublime" mousse. I have to admit, it was pretty sublime. Not at all messy to apply. It didn't splatter or drip down behind my ears. Easy to rinse out. Less smelly on the smelliness scale.
Consider this my endorsement. Dye your hair all you want. (Just, please don't use straight peroxide.) And, buy the mousse if you're a born mess-maker like me.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go nurse a wicked head rush.
I've been coloring my hair since the age of 16. With a meager allowance, I started out using straight peroxide mixed with water in an old hair spray bottle. This was 1990 and the days of Sun-In. I would apply my concoction (on top of permed hair, yikes!) Then, instead of wasting time sitting out in the sun, I would stick my head right under the blow dryer. Check the mirror. Eh, we can do better... and repeat the process multiple times until all visible hairs were properly brassy.
 |
| Matching eyebrows, not a concern in 1990. |
Yeah, my head stank like the nurse's station, but I fit right in beside my Sunned-In friends without anyone being any wiser. (We'd bleached all the wisdom out of our heads by then.)
My first experience with a "real" at-home dye kit came the following year. Age 17, my first time applying plastic glove to applicator tip and shaking gently. (This was also my first time applying brown splotches to the wallpaper in my parents' bathroom.) And so, my natural hair color was never to be seen again. (Unless we're counting that top inch of mane that crops up every couple of months.)
Since that day I've been everything from blonde to strawberry blonde to orange to reddish to all-shades-of-brown-but-the-natural-kind to black. In my twenties it was almost like an Olympic-worthy event. I would change my hair as often as once a month. I liked to keep my on-lookers on their toes.
I even went one year insistent on having the opposite hair color of the season. Meaning dark hair in the summer, light in the winter, red in the spring instead of fall. You get it? Ooh. Such a rebel I was. I don't remember what brought that on. It could have been the miswiring in me that always wants to be different than everybody else. Or, it could have just been the simple fact that the Clairol bottles go on clearance when they're out of season. (Did I mention, I'm cheap?)
Whatever the case, consider me the guinea pig and trust me that it's near impossible to keep your hair dark in the summertime. Especially if you spend alot of time outdoors like I do. It's not rebellious, it's just plain stupid. The sunlight doesn't tend to make your hair any darker!
There was a day when it was impolite for a woman to admit her hair color was fake. Now everybody dyes and nobody cares. Everyone also seems to pretend that they've been dying their hair for so long that they "can't even remember what my natural hair color is."
They're liars. I can remember with great confidence what color my natural hair is. That's why I keep dying it, duh.
People politely refer to those with my natural coloring as "mousy brown". That brings up the cute depiction of cartoon Disney mice. Real mousy brown hair is the color of real mice. The mice you find in the sewers or rooting through your trash on garbage night. With no depth or real color shading the hue. Not dark and rich enough to be milk-chocolatety. Not light and warm enough to be coined as golden. Real mousy brown hair is the color of tree bark. Not cartoon tree bark. That real tree bark that is currently peeling off the oak in the backyard. Colorists call it "ash" brown. Dull and lifeless. So dull it can almost be mistaken for gray. (Sadly, my grayish brown natural hair is also now streaked with actual silver.)
Tonight I tried the newest fad in hair coloring. No-drip "sublime" mousse. I have to admit, it was pretty sublime. Not at all messy to apply. It didn't splatter or drip down behind my ears. Easy to rinse out. Less smelly on the smelliness scale.
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| Yes! |
 |
| Yes! |
 |
| Yes! |
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go nurse a wicked head rush.
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