A month ago in a flurry of excitement I ordered all the bleach and dye needed to make my hair a lilac delight. I became immersed in looking at pictures of gorgeous pastel hair on Pinterest and envisaged myself rocking the same cool colour. When the dye arrived I meticulously did all the tests needed and arranged with my friend (who was supposed to be a dyeing expert) when we were going to do it.
Friday came around and we set about bleaching the shit out of my hair, now its important for you to know that I already had medium/light blonde hair so it should have been relatively easy to do. Oh how wrong I was. Having used up all the bleach powder my friend started to make somewhat disgruntled sounding noises. My heart filled with fear; “um is everything ok?” I nervously asked. “Yeah I think so” came the reply. Not something I wanted to hear to be honest. I wanted a sound, resolute “everything is great!” Regardless, we carried on and eventually I washed out the bleach; only to discover instead of going white my hair had turned a brassy, orange kind of colour.
By this point I was already beginning to have my doubts, but the state of my hair meant I couldn’t quit as there was no way I would go out in public looking like I had Lucozade infused into my head. It was only after we started adding the purple that we both realised a mistake had been made, my hair was not taking the colour and in a fit of temper I rinsed it all out. This left me to put it nicely, looking like a science experiment gone wrong. The ends of my hair to mid-way up had gone purple, and the rest had patchy coverage with ginger and white everywhere. And my roots. Oh god, were they hideous. On the verge of tears I asked my friend to go into town and get everything needed to salvage my hair and dignity. An hour later she returned, armed with colour stripper, toner and brown dye.
The brown hair dye terrified me. I had been blonde my entire life; the thought of having dark hair majorly freaked me out. Not only would I look extremely washed out; which being super pale was something I really did not need. But I just couldn’t envisage myself going dark. But alas, what else was I to do. So after stripping my hair, which turned it a mermaidy aquamarine, I then made my shower look like a slaughterhouse, due to the masses of red toner I washed out going absolutely EVERYWHERE. I’m talking up the walls, on the shower curtain, somehow under the curtain and up my door, the toilet-seat and all over the floor. My bathroom looked like Michael Myers had been busy in there and how it happened still mystifies me. Anyway an hour and a half later I was sat, looking at the mirror with dark brown/burgundy hair. And I hated it, I loathed the sight of myself. It was just wrong, this wasn’t me, I looked weird. I had to go back to blonde, somehow.
As I write this I am awaiting my hair appointment to go back to my true colour, my calling, my one true love. I have had to wait a month though; and boy has it dragged on. In that month I did learn some things about myself, for example brown hair makes me look mildly like the corpse bride, so I can now do makeup which reinvigorates the face mildly. So if the undead ever rise I could end up with a lucrative career in a zombie beauty salon. Which is handy I suppose; always nice to have a back up plan. But finally I shall be myself once more; an 80s obsessive with thick eyebrows and blonde hair. The glory.
I’d love to know if anyone else has suffered a hair calamity and what lengths you went to to salvage your precious hair.