Hair Job

So I did it. I dyed my hair. By myself. See, since moving to Krautland, I have not found a decent hair salon. I’ve had highlights a color my sister (who has perfect hair) called cat piss yellow. I’ve had a reddish tint the color and shine of old pennies on the bottom of a purse. I’ve had a couple of cuts that left me looking like the shaggy dog. It’s been terrible. And I’ve paid hundreds of euros to look that bad!

I’ve seen exactly two women with hair I liked. One woman cuts and dyes her own hair. The other goes to such a chi chi salon, that without matching shoes and handbags, one would not be given an appointment.

Every other woman here has one of three hair styles: 1. The bleached, bleached blond straight long hair with natty roots combined with the tanning bed brown skin 2. Vato girl streaks on long brown hair with natty roots and tanning bed brown skin or 3. Short, masculine cuts with leopard spot highlights.

I am not blond, I am not Vato and the last time I had short hair was a Dorothy Hamil cut in the 4th grade that I believe scarred me so horribly that even today I hyperventilate when I think about it.

So I’ve waited. I’ve invested in cute rubber bands because a ponytail is the only “style” I can wear with 5” roots. I had hopes of visiting John V, the hair guy in SF in Feb. But I didn’t make it to SF in Feb. Then I thought I’d see him in June. June is a no go for SF. I’m keeping my fingers crossed for August.

However, since my cat piss yellow hi-lights have grown out, I’ve started to look like a crack ho. And as Crack Ho is NOT the look I’m going for, I decide to dye my hair myself. I mean, lots of women do it, right? I couldn’t be worse than that chick that gave me the cat piss yellow to begin with. And we were going to Berlin, which meant there was a bathroom I could destroy that didn’t belong to me.

The last time I tried to do my own hair I was 22. It was a Friday night, alone with a box of wine, a bag of chips and a do it yourself highlight kit. I had just read in Cosmo that chunky streaks were ‘In’. So chunk it up I did. The box said to test a strip, but as I’m a totally average person, I figured my hair was average too, no need to test. And since more is always better than less, I did my whole head and left it on for like 45 minutes. The box said 25-35 minutes. I figured 45 minutes were good enough. Actually, the box of wine said it was good enough because by that point the box of wine was actually in control. Boy, that box of wine really had it in for me.

I ended up with a lemon color that, funnily enough, absorbed all light like a black hole. This characteristic was not described on the packaging. In fact, the girl on the package looked happy and sunny and carefree. Not like she just ruined her hair for the next 3 years. To be fair, the girl on the box did not have a box of wine either.

The next morning I met my dad and step-mom for a garden show with a baseball cap on. K told me that indeed my hair looked horrible and that I desperately needed to go to a professional. I went to her hair guy to fix it. He was so pissed. He couldn’t even look at my hair without scowling. He then told me not to ever, ever, ever dye my own hair again. “Lemon is the color little girls get when they dye their own hair. I have no idea if i can fix this.” That is a direct quote from John the hair guy. Did i mention John is like 6″2′, straight, ex-military with a big bald head? I have been so afraid of him for the past 10 years, I never thought to do it myself.

It turned out okay, though.

And I did destroy the bathroom. I have no idea how I got hair dye on the walls and ceiling, but I did. And thank god it wasn’t in our marble Taj Mahal. Markus would have scalped me.

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