On Death and Dyeing

As I have said before, haircare is a big issue for me in this year of not spending. I have -- let's face it -- bad hair. It is big, for one thing. The first time my mother ever saw me, I already had a bunch of pink ribbons in my hair. I was like AN HOUR OLD. Bald I was not.

(Apparently back in 1712, when I was born, they knocked you out to give birth. So when my mother woke up and got to see me I had already had a blow-out by some neonatal hairdresser.) (And by the way, why on earth did they stop knocking you out? Doesn't it sound way better to go to sleep, wake up and there's a gorilla baby, like my mother had? I would much prefer that to having to breathe and push and having 17 people in the room.)

Once we had to measure our hair in science class, and I had the fattest individual strand in the room. When I stick my hand through my hair, you can barely see my fingers sticking out. Trust me, the hair is big. And curly. And coarse.

Also, it is now, I assume, completely gray. My father was totally gray when he was like 25. So was my grandmother. Since I slap dye on it every six weeks, I am not so sure just HOW gray it is, but those roots are pretty darn white.

So, when Marvin Gardens and I made up our no-spending rules (one of which he flagrantly ignored, by the way: I just found some salad-in-a-bag in the fridge), I said, "Maybe I should let my hair go gray." Marvin said, "Dyeing your hair is a medical necessity." I guess he wants to hold on to the illusion that I am still the hot 20-year-old he first dated. Poor Marvin.

So I knew I would have to buy dye out of a box. It was a compromise -- I usually have my hairdresser, Donna Hairdresser, come over to my house and give me highlights, lowlights, headlights, When the Lights Go Down in the City, you name it. I have not dyed my hair out of a box since my friend Cindy and I got on the plastic gloves in her kitchen, circa 1988.

Well, today I found myself talking to a complete stranger who turned out to be a hairdresser! I told her about my not spending, and asked her if dye out of a box would harm my various lights. She told me to get Preference, "None of that Feria," she said. She told me to get two boxes, as she recognized the big hair situation.

So off I went to CVS, and I am excited to report I used that $25 gift card I got at Christmas, so I didn't even spend, really.

When I got home and opened the box, there was a huge warning about doing a patch test to make sure you are not allergic. Now, I know I am the only woman in America to be concerned about this warning. But I am afraid of allergic reactions. One time I took penicillin and my tongue blew up, and it was scary.

So, I actually did what they told me, and put some of the dye on my arm. I waited a few minutes, and the spot WAS PURPLE! Ohmygod, did I panic. I went online and read about how women have DIED of ANAPHYLACTIC SHOCK from HAIR DYE! I had NO IDEA!

I considered calling an ambulance right then and there, but I had on a really stupid outfit. I thought about just driving to the ER and waiting outside, so if I started going into anaphylactic shock, I could run in. Finally, I decided to wash my arm. Do you know the purple came right off?

And here's the saddest part. I swear to you I have a 127 IQ. It took me TWENTY MINUTES to realize the reason my arm turned PURPLE was because I put DYE ON MY ARM. It's DYE. It DYES you.

So, I got more of it out and put it back on my arm. And so far I am not dead from the patch test. Wouldn't it be dramatic if this was the last time I blogged in here, cause I FELL OVER DEAD from vanity?