A Dye Job NOT to Die for Dec 8 2010

My roots were getting out of control and despite all the crap that Carly was telling me about how ¨fashionable¨it is in England to look like you don´t care about what you look like, I can´t do it. I know I am a backpacker and I have let a lot go (I don´t even wear make up daily- I know! Me, no make up. Shocking!). Soooo I scheduled an appointment with my local English speaking hair gal, selected a color online and headed over to her house, where the magic would happen. The color I chose was out of stock so we went with something similar but a bit more red... or so I thought. Terrie and I chatted while the color sat in my hair, she washed it out like normal, wrapped my head in a towel and sat me in front of the mirror. When she removed the towel I think that my heart may have actually stopped. My hair was purple. Not like sort of purple or in the sunlight it might have a purple tint. No, this was Fraggle Rock purple, teen punk purple, crayola crayon PURPLE! I obviously didn´t hide my horror very well because within seconds Terrie had thrown a book at me and swore she would be back in 3 minutes with a color to cover THAT. I couldn´t stop staring. What had I been thinking? My once lovely blond hair was now a color that exude teen angst. Where had I gone wrong? At one point in my life I was driving 5 hours from San Francisco to Santa Barbara to have Gabe highlight my hair. Ridiculous, I know. And now, this is what I have become... a mess. Purple. Terrie quickly reapplied the new color, which claimed to be some form of deep brown. Though the color tab on the box looked fairly light brown... Another bought of waiting, washing and unveiling, only this time it was BLACK! Black really? Me with BLACK hair? I tried to convince myself that it was only the lighting in the apartment and that outside it would look like the beautiful chestnut color I had imagined. Every time I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a window or mirror I was shocked by the stranger who had my same face. It has been three days now and I think that I have washed my hair 12 times. Every time I see those pink soapy bubbles running down the drain I shed a tear of happiness! A few more days of extreme washing, a couple dips in the pool and perhaps a handful of long runs in the sun and that chestnut dream with make an appearance on my head.