The day I dyed

Do you ever wake up and think: I hate my hair, I must change it, immediately? I did that a few weeks ago (documented in a previous blog called The Night I Dyed). I impulsively bought a $15 home dye kit at Woolies and turned myself into Brunhilda. I immediately hated my new hair colour even more than my old hair colour. I also decided it was too long and too straggly. So I texted my hairdresser and threw myself on his mercy. Being a popular hairdresser (naturally), it took a few weeks to score a cancellation in his hectic schedule so he could rescue me from my folly. On dye day, I woke up and washed my hair, then briefly panicked about whether you’re supposed to wash your hair before professionally dyeing it.  I also fretted about what to wear – would my clothes get wrecked like my pyjamas did when I DIY dyed at home? I wasn’t sure, as I’d never gone to a hairdresser to get my hair dyed before. Quite impressive for age 43. Just think how much money I’ve saved over the years. Actually, I now know exactly how much money I’ve saved, and it’s substantial. The first shock, however, was that it takes three hours to have your hair cut and coloured. I haven’t spent that long in a salon since I got hooked on spiral perms in the ’80s (imagine a red setter crossed with a poodle and dressed in a lemon sweater and you’ll get a pretty clear picture of my “look”). Fortunately, my dad was in town to collect the Sprogs from school while I was being arduously beautified. The second shock came when I was told that because I’d home dyed my hair “dark auburn” (a fancy name for “blah brown”) I wouldn’t be able to get the dazzling shade of titian I desired. The best I could hope for was a dark reddish brown that would eventually fade to a vaguely coppery colour. To cheer myself up, I told my hairdresser all about how unreasonable Husband was being by refusing to go to the Hunter Valley. He totally agreed (his exact words were, “What a grumpy old man! I don’t think I’ll talk to him when he comes in for his next haircut.”), then passed me to a lovely young gentleman to be coloured. I felt a bit sorry for the lovely young gentleman. He’d just handed in his notice and was leaving the salon in two weeks, but felt professionally obligated to be polite and ask me about my plans for the weekend, Christmas, the ages of my children etc. I felt I should be polite in return and answered his questions, then asked about his plans for Christmas (India), home town (Young). It was a rather elaborate and pointless exercise for both of us, but we soldiered on through the 90-minute application of dye, heat setting, rinsing and blow-drying. (He did offer some very helpful tips on using Twitter to publicise my blog, whatever Twitter actually is and however it actually works and why anyone actually bothers.) I got a bit tense during the blow-dry at the end, as I’d parked in a two-hour zone and didn’t fancy an additional $80 parking fine on top of a prohibitive hairdressing bill, so I let him off the hook on giving me the full treatment (“no, no, damp is totally fine, really. I like it that way, I do, really”), winced at the $250 bill (how the frickin’ hell does that fit into anyone’s budget – and timetable – every six weeks? Are women mad?) and dashed outside, breathing a huge sigh of relief at the absence of an infringement notice under my windscreen wipers. My luck wasn’t to last, however. While I’d been beautifying, a petrol tanker had been wiping out five cars on the Harbour Bridge and closing all the lanes. I felt terribly sorry for those injured and deeply annoyed about the hour it took me to get home again. My mother was slightly taken aback when she saw me (wide-eyed, shocked expression) and said, “It’s very dark, darling”. But, after examining it in the sunlight, she pronounced it a vast improvement on my home dye job. Plus, she added, it was a relief to see all those frizzy split ends gone.

TONIGHT’S DINNER: Husband’s problem, since he’s refused to accompany me to the art gallery opening in the Hunter Valley, where I will be sipping Tamberlaine wines and supping on Mojo’s on Wilderness finger food, then dining at Cessnock’s finest Thai restaurant (if such thing exists, fingers crossed).