Idiot on Aisle 3

Look ma, salon styled hair!

After a year of growing my hair out I slumped into my stylists chair.  I brought my hair, she brought the usual questions. "How are you?  How are kids? What length?" and then the inevitable ... "Color, too?"  "No", I replied, "I'm still trying to grow the last color out".  Why did I wait a year to cut my hair?  Pure and simple embarrassment.  A while ago I made a disastrous attempt at dying my hair at home. Like an idiot I forgot to add the bottle of oil into the mix for the color "sangria". Who forgets an ingredient in sangria?  I do! Queue embarrassment: I ended up with fried hair and I have been on a mission to grow it out and start fresh.  Goodbye sangria!

Since 17, I have what salon experts refer to as, "persistent gray".  Whether I invest in professional coloring or do it in the privacy of my own home, by day 3 the gray is back with a vengeance. Rinse, repeat.  History aside, I am actually quite the optimist when it comes to DIY hair coloring.  By optimist, I mean I continue to try to do-it-myself knowing that I am lacking in something really critical ... skill.  But what I lack in skill I make up with a can-do attitude!  This my friends is a vicious cycle.

I can't help it!  This outrageously optimistic, can-do attitude is always with me.  And yet, I never seem to learn from it.  Nearly every woman I know outsources salon services.  These are intelligent individuals who leave it to the professionals.  Hair, nails, waxing, these beauty regimens are successfully accomplished by people who have dedicated their life to this craft, and I too outsource, with one exception: dying my hair.  It's a combination of that persistent gray, a nagging urge to save money and a ridiculous obsession with 10-minute youtube tutorials.  Damn you youtube and my naive ability to be tricked into believing I can do something without proper certification.

And then folks, history repeats itself. 
 
At the start of my sophomore year in high school a friend suggested that I highlight my hair.  What a great idea!  Blond highlights in my brown hair to really show-off the sun-kissed, California summer look.  We ventured into a drug store and stood before the aisle of hair dyes.  Smiling women with gorgeous, luxurious hair stared back at us.  I grabbed a box guaranteeing beautiful blonde highlights and headed for the register.  Back at my friends house my first hint that this might not be a superb plan went unnoticed, she had to visit a relative and couldn't help me apply the dye.  No problem I thought, I can do it alone!

At home I looked over the directions.  They seemed simple enough.  Step 1: mix dye.  Step 2: brush hair.  Step 3: using a comb, starting at your temple, comb the dye through your hair all the way to the end.  Easy!  Long hair brushed, tools laid out before me, I was ready for my gorgeous, luxurious, sun-kissed, California look.  Ready!!

Sadly, this is what really happened. 

I took the comb and spread a layer of dye across it.  I started the comb close to the roots.  An inch in it clumped on my hair.  No problem.  Using my comb and fingers I attempted to spread the dye down the length of my hair.  The clump wouldn't spread.  No problem.  I tried to distribute the clump down the length of my hair by the individual strands.  Not working.  No problem.  I decided the best idea was to try washing the dye out.  As I dried my hair there was a panicked reflection in the mirror.  My gorgeous, luxurious, sun-kissed, California look had become a single blond clump at the top of my head.  <BLEEP>.

At this precise moment my mother came home.  <BLEEP>.  As I held the box up and glanced between the model and my hair, I knew I couldn't cope with my mother yelling at me for my idiocy.  Instead of fessing up to my ridiculous new hairstyle I devised a foolproof plan.  It went like this: any time I was around my mother I would wear a towel wrapped on my head.  At school I would wear a thick headband to cover the mess.  It could work!  I was a few days away from school starting and even with tennis practice after school and a bus ride home I would still beat her home.  And wouldn't you know it, it worked.  It worked for four whole days until she caught me head uncovered in my room while my stereo blared louder than the knock at my door.

If you know my mother, you can imagine the yelling that commenced.  Embarrassment aside, what I was not prepared for was this: the box mix was a bleaching dye and it took OVER A YEAR to grow out.  For over a year a patch of blond hair slowly migrated from the top of my head to the roots.  Did I learn my lesson?  Of course not.  A better question, do I ever?

Ignore the scrunchie, laugh at the blond patch.

       

When Your Child Turns Out To Be You

My 7th grader Julian has been selling dark chocolate with almond See's Candy bars as a fundraiser to offset his cost of attending a band tour to Southern California.  On Sunday I asked to see how much candy he had left to sell and assist in the money reconciliation.  His response, "About that ...".  Never a good sign.  It turns out that on Friday the box of candy and envelope of money were carelessly forgotten under his desk after sixth period.  He conveniently neglected to tell me about the mistake and was praying (to all forms of deity) that it would be right where he left it, bright and early Monday morning.

Yeah, right.  No one is that lucky.

Bring on the lecture.  After calmly explaining that I would now have to pay to replace the bars (because he spent all of his savings on the previous box) and my writing a check defeated the entire purpose of fundraising (insert Charlie Brown's teacher speaking) I opened my laptop and we sent a quick note to his sixth period teacher.  She was lovely and immediately responded, "I will check first thing but I didn't see anything when I left after sixth period."

What we both heard with fingers crossed: so you're saying there's hope?

I couldn't get mad.  Why?  I was reminded of a certain Bobby Sox softball season.  6th grade.  Taylor circa 1987 and a box of milk chocolate with almond World's Finest Chocolate bars aimlessly forgotten at the school bike stall.  That afternoon I slowly peddled home, fingers crossed on the handle bars, promising God I would try not to talk too much at school and half believing the box would magically be waiting on my front doorstop.  In reality, me at home, getting the stand-in-the-corner-while-I-yell-at-you treatment from my mother and only hearing (Wah wah wah wah wah wah wah).  Yes, the sound of Charlie Brown's teacher speaking.  Oh how history repeats itself.

I like to think in the present day scenario Julian was actually listening.  I can't guarantee it.  Nodding your head in agreement is a very simple exercise that can easily be perfected over the years.  Quick hint: wide, glassy eyes are a tell-tale confirmation that someone is hearing but not listening.  Trust me, I know that nod and glass eyed expression.  Oh, how I know it.  

What struck me most in that moment wasn't the mistake or the the praying or the hoping that all will be well in the world on Monday morning.  I added this chocolate bar incident to the never-ending list of Julian-ism's and with happy, amused realization I couldn't help but grin, I have seen this all before ... my son is a mini-me.  Well, almost like me.  In his case the chocolate and money were exactly where he left them under his desk Monday morning.  I guess the prayer gene skips a generation.  Oh, that lucky, lucky kid.