Blonde for a Day

Last Thursday, I innocently asked my hairdresser for some blonde highlights to give my hair a little pick me up for summer. I'd been considering it for a while, because when people describe my hair colour, the word 'mousey' tends to crop up, and there's not much sexy about that. I decided that I'd quite like to be Mischa Barton, or at least have her hair, and so I showed this picture to said hairdresser, whom we shall christen Maggie.

See? Quite tastefully blonde I thought, and not so drastically different from my natural hair colour that it would make me freak out, since I have never coloured my hair before. Maggie agreed on the choice, but warned me that my hair probably wouldn't be as light as this the first time she coloured it.

Cut to a while later, when I am washing the peroxide out of my hair, and I notice that my hair is feeling like straw, and looking like... well, straw. I went back downstairs to where Maggie and my sister and niece are waiting, and laughed nervously: it will look different when it's dry, right? They laughed and assured me it would, then sat and praised the colour as Maggie cut and blow dried my hair. It mustn't be so bad, I thought, reassured by the approving smiles of both sis and niece as Maggie dished out back handed compliments such as: it's so much better than your natural colour!

Oh my frickin' Lord. I will be posting pictures on Flickr shortly of the colour she gave me. Suffice to say, it was a shade of yellow that I like to call "Penelope Pitstop." It's not that I don't like blonde hair. When I was little, I was almost white blonde. But this wasn't even a nice colour, it was a brassy blonde, and nothing like what I asked for. Somebody had to die.

Well okay, maybe not. It's only hair after all. At worst, I would simply pull a Britney, but skip out the whole bearing children to K.Fed chapter and also probably drop the crotch flashing as well. When I say never again, I mean it.

Boyf was not pleased with the result either. When he saw it the next morning, he masked his displeasure with his usual mixture of tact and grace by uttering the following question: What have you done, you stupid cow?!

Technically, I was blonde for a long weekend, since I waited until Monday to buy a dark blonde dye to cover it. My hair is now looking pretty much exactly the same as it did before I let Maggie touch it, except it's kind of shinier.

As Alanis said: you live, you learn.

P.S. This post was written by a twenty-five year old woman. I turned a quarter of a century old on Easter Sunday. Bah. Birthday highlights to follow. No pun intended.