the drunk dyer

I've always been infatuated with my hair.  From the first time my South African exchange student brushed bleach through my dark brown hair turning me into an two-toned preteen with an attitude, I fell in love with hair dye.  I've been blond, black and at about all stages in between.  I've diced my own hair, not only at the age of four but at 20 as well.  Needless to say... it's an addiction.

Then came Val.  The love of my life... well, if the love of my life could be a 40-year old gay man.  Needless to say, we've been going steady for 2 1/2 years after my move to Milwaukee left me dull and flat.  He's been there through my almost relationships, my drunken stories, and of course the many lengths and colors of my hair.  Most of my friends use him now too, after they get my permission first.  And those who don't, I don't like very much anyways.

My most recent adventure involved a bottle of vodka (well, most of my adventures do) and a bad choice of hair color.  I had gone blonde for my best friend's wedding (a whole different adventure in itself) and decided I wanted to go back to my natural color.  So after a mixed drink (or so)  I ripped my first plastic glove and fumbled with the other.  I spent the next 10 minutes spreading the brown cream all over my hair, face, arms, bathroom sink, floor, and bra.  I spent the next 15 minutes scrubbing my skin raw so I wouldn't stain and headed back to my kitchen to make another drink.  

By the time I hopped in the shower to rinse out the color, I was pretty tipsy (I think most people call it drunk, however, I hold myself to a different standard).  I rinsed most of the color out dried off, put on some makeup and got my roommates approval of my artwork.  I then headed to the bar for ladies night.

When I woke up the next morning at noon, I was so miserable I couldn't remember how I had gotten home the night before (thanks goodness for busting in on random neighbors and sharing salsa with my roommate and my foot).  I rolled out of bed... or maybe I made a thud... whatever, and walked to my mirror where I saw a hung over girl with purple hair.  Wait... it was a hung over girl with purple hair speckled with blonde.

Despite my horror, I figured out how to fix it so I couldn't tell.  As long as I couldn't see how bad it looked, I figured neither could anyone else.  After two weeks, I figured it had been long enough and bought another box of cheap color and dyed it again, sans vodka.  I got better coverage but still have a mixture of black/brown/red/purple hair.  Makes a mother proud I'm sure.

I finally worked up the courage to call Val and admit my mistake... after all... most drunken mistakes end in pregnancy.  I was put on a strict diet of clarifying shampoo and no conditioner and I'm taking my hair into the doctor next Tuesday.