Hello Gorgeous

Tags

blue hair, gray hair, hair, humour, music

They say blondes have more fun, and I’m going to have to take them at their word because I’m happy being blue.

People in whose circle I don’t usually run, make the same statement: “still blue, huh?”

It’s been just over 2 months since I decided to rebel and I have no regrets. I also have no intention of changing any time soon. Get used to it!

But just in case you’re considering rebelling too, there are a few things you might want to know first.

1. Wash it in cold water. Hot water lifts the outer cuticle layer of your hair, releasing the colour faster. There’s nothing more refreshing than soaking your head under the tap with ice cold water first thing in the morning. So I usually have a hot shower with a shower cap…and wash my hair later in the day once the caffeine from my first pot of tea has kicked in.
2. Be committed to your colour. Get used to blue fingernails, blue hair brushes, and blue towels. Like most home dyes, the colour comes out…and not just under the tap. Oh, it often washes out with a bit of scrubbing when it’s fresh, but if you want pretty nails, I suggest getting a manicure and invest in nail polish.
3. Speaking of things turning blue…rain is not your friend. Neither are night sweats. Wet hair can sometimes run, especially if you’ve just refreshed the colour. The first time I refreshed my colour at home, I remembered to put a towel on my pillows. Imagine my horror when I woke up with a blue neck. What can I say? It was a sultry, summer night and I am still wrestling with the raging inferno of my dying youth.  It washed off, but it was a terrific way to kickstart my day. Right up there with ice cold water, baby!
4. Pay attention. Just like the seasons, colours change. Or rather, like my motivation, they fade. Which isn’t so bad until it’s bad. One day, you’re sporting electric blue…the next, you’re sporting a gross shade of algae-covered pool water. Just like those pesky extra pounds that keep coming back (and bringing friends), you have to be vigilant and refresh before little kids refer to your haircolour as “cotton candy”.

Invest in your hair. It is the crown you never take off.

1. Make time. Make time to refresh it, and maybe plan a relaxing activity for the 20-30 minutes you’re waiting for the dye to work its magic! Hair dyes have improved a lot, even from the days that I started experimenting. They have cream dyes now. Less mess…but still a mess. Wear old gloves. Wear old clothes (or none at all). And keep assorted old towels, face cloths, and plastic hair clips handy. Blue ears are only cute on a smurf. And no one wants to explain the blue hand prints on your porcelain sink 5 years from now.

It will never look as good as the moment you step from the salon feeling like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

And it doesn’t matter. Whatever the style. Whatever the length. Whatever the colour.

 Be your own kind of beautiful!

 

Happy Weekend!

It’s…Crunchy

Tags

disasters, fashion, gray hair, humour

I hate my hair! It’s no secret! Hubby has heard me declare that I was going to shave it all off more times that the number of hairs on his head (and his beard, and his chest – he’s a very hairy guy)! And no one would blame me if I did! I have been wrestling it into place for many years, a testament to the precarious grip I have on sanity!

Every school photo, I had the same look: dishevelled and neglected waif!

My mother tried. She really did. Some years she carefully rolled my hair into rags the night before Picture Day to make pretty curls. Other years she yanked it back into pigtails. But by the time I sat in front of the photographer, her hard work was undone. Curls with a life of their own; pigtails all askew. Stray wisps mocking her from the glossy pages.

It hasn’t improved with age.

When I started this blog, I wrote in my Raison D’Etre that I was going to get a funky new haircut, maybe a new colour too. But in the midst of trying to have a midlife crisis, I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. Or rather, I couldn’t quite decide what to do. If I hadn’t figured it out in the previous decades, what were my chances now that I was writing about it?

And then last Summer, I bit the bullet. I booked the appointment. I searched the internet for a rockin’ look. That morning, I showered my long locks for the last time and headed out the door:

Note the reluctant grimace on my face and the fear in my eyes…

I knew it would take awhile to adjust to the new “do”. I had, afterall, removed a significant hank of hair during that appointment – 12 inches in fact. I was away from home at the time, so even Hubby had to wait a few days for the great unveiling.

The actual unveiling to Hubby did not go as planned! He never said he didn’t like it…but “what he did say built upon my rapidly diminishing ability to keep a stiff upper lip, and his words haunted me until bedtime…that hour when all reason slips away quietly, just like the setting sun. And faced with my reflection in the glare of the fluorescent bathroom lights, I could see the truth”.

This is how I responded:

“First, came the gentle weeping, the slow trickle of tears from the corners of my eyes. But like a summer storm, the heavens opened with a torrential outpouring of unreasonable sorrow. I breathlessly sobbed a cacophony of unintelligible words behind my hands. I knew Hubby was probably panicking, grasping for something to say while knowing fully that nothing was going to stem this flow. His wife had turned into a monstrous behemoth of volatile emotions, and he may or may not be partly responsible. (I’m pretty sure he was amused as well, so don’t feel too sorry for him). Like a banshee, I cried , “I just wanted to be pretty…this is where you’re supposed to say ‘you are pretty’…even if (repeating Hubby’s humiliating statement)”, which succeeded in making us both laugh, even as I was hiccupping into my damp pillow. I fell asleep hoping my pillow didn’t grow mould in the humid room as I slept.”

(To see the shameful after picture, click here. I’d just insert it here, but I’m hoping the 3 of you will be too lazy bored busy to actually go there!)

All this is leading up to yesterday… I actually rolled out of bed earlier than expected, so I decided to play with Little Guy’s blue hair gel…In theory, it looked great. In reality, it looked…crunchy! I could have toussled my hair with Elmer’s glue and it would have looked just as attractive. And having used up all my extra time, I had to head to work like that. And the chiropractor like that. And then home to bury my head under the pillows.

Thankfully it washed out and my hair isn’t crunchy anymore.

It’s also not blue. Or behaving in any sensible 40-year old way.

So much for my midlife crisis. Shaving it off is starting to sound good again!

Happy Weekend!

For Better or For Worse…

Tags

family, gray hair, hair, humour

I mentioned it earlier this week…I got my hair butchered cut…and I’m not happy about it.

In my first blog post in January 2012, I wrote “I wore my “new” sassy green boots on Saturday – an incredible find- and was feeling fabulous, when it dawned on me – I need a new hair style too, edgy with colour? Hmm…” Well, the blog continues, my mid-life crisis is happening, and I’m still feeling fabulous in my sassy green boots…but the haircut didn’t happen.

I’ve almost always had long hair. I grew up with a twisted notion that guys like to get their hands tangled up in a thick mane of lustrous locks. I have always thought that scene in the gag-me-with-a-dump-truck until-I-vomit-my-insides-out movies where a guy gently traces a girl’s face and sweeps a lock of hair off before uttering some nonsense that makes her melt, was romantic. I’ve been married 18 years; if those moments haven’t happened now, they’re not going to happen. I’m over 40 now. It’s time to grow up and move on.

I booked the appointment. I researched the requirements for donating hair to the Cancer Society and medium-length haircuts. I washed it and asked my Mom to snap a “before” picture…

I thought I was prepared. It was only hair after all. It would grow back. I had already confirmed that the stylist couldn’t do the colour as well, but I could add it later. I only had to lose 8”.

I thought I had been clear; I had a picture after all…

But hair is never just hair. It’s a woman’s nemesis and her definition. It’s sexuality and beauty, a “crowning glory”. It’s not just hair…

She cut off 12”.

“Once upon a time there was light in my life, but now there’s only love in the dark…nothing I can say, a total eclipse of the heart” – Bonnie Tyler/Jim Steinman, Total Eclipse of the Heart

My mother thought it was “cute”. She kept saying it over and over again, as if that somehow made it all better. I hate the word “cute”…have always hated it. Kittens are cute. Little girls with curls are cute. 40 year old women are not “cute”.

I looked like a used Q-tip. I looked like I was wearing a brown helmet. Where’s that dump truck?

Hubby first saw my new haircut Saturday evening. He never said he didn’t like it…but what he did say built upon my rapidly diminishing ability to keep a stiff upper lip, and his words haunted me until bedtime…that hour when all reason slips away quietly, just like the setting sun. And faced with my reflection in the glare of the fluorescent bathroom lights, I could see the truth.

First, came the gentle weeping, the slow trickle of tears from the corners of my eyes. But like a summer storm, the heavens opened with a torrential outpouring of unreasonable sorrow. I breathlessly sobbed a cacophony of unintelligible words behind my hands. I knew Hubby was probably panicking, grasping for something to say while knowing fully that nothing was going to stem this flow. His wife had turned into a monstrous behemoth of volatile emotions, and he may or may not be partly responsible. (I’m pretty sure he was amused as well, so don’t feel too sorry for him). Like a banshee, I cried , “I just wanted to be pretty…this is where you’re supposed to say ‘you are pretty’…even if (repeating Hubby’s humiliating statement)”, which succeeded in making us both laugh, even as I was hiccupping into my damp pillow. I fell asleep hoping my pillow didn’t grow mould in the humid room as I slept.

I wanted to stay in bed the next day but I had to help lead worship. I had to start facing my world again…So, here I am world. Smiling on the outside…while still dying a little inside.

It’ll grow back, right?

I should have reminded Hubby he married me for better or for worse…

 

 

Now I remember why…

Tags

gray hair, hair, humour

Now I remember why I don’t wear my hair down very often.

Determined not to look like the walking dead (even if I still felt like it), I got up a bit early and straightened my hair. For the one time this year, my hair had actually dried before bed last night and it had stayed relatively untangled and frizz-free, so it was an easy job. But would it last?

By the time Little Guy and I left the house, my hair was still perfect – perfectly smooth, perfectly shiny, perfectly in place. Then I opened the door. The wind hit me first and made the air feel close to -30C. So a few strands were blown out of place, it was still good, right?

The parking lot at the school was relatively empty; the school yard was completely empty. I popped the buckle on the seat belt and as it retracted, I felt a sudden tug and then…then it slowly dawned on me, as the tug turned to pain, that a large fistful of my hair had retracted with the seat belt and I was now hopelessly snarled. My claustrophobia started to kick just as Little Guy started singing “Everything is awesome” for the quadrillionth time…Everything was not awesome…

I walked Little Guy to the school door, with tears streaming down my white face, as I nursed the balding spot on the side of my head. I was still confident that I could run a comb through it when I got to work; it could still be alright.

I needed caffeine so I stopped at the grocery store, which just happened to have a Tim Horton’s. I bought my strong and steaming elixir of heavenly morning goodness. Then I headed to the back to grab a 2L carton of lactose-free milk and a dozen large eggs (might as well make the trip really worthwhile). Tim Horton’s used to double-cup their hot tea, but not anymore. It required a delicate balancing act to carry a 2L carton of milk, 12 eggs and a very hot, very large tea from the back of the store to the only cashier open at that hour…on the farthest side of the store possible. By now, I could feel the frizz started to build up. As I struggled to pack my one bag, juggle keys and mittens, and fight with the purse strap that kept sliding off my shoulder (my hair must have been shinier than I realized), I dropped a tissue. Not wanting to litter, I bent down to pick it up. As I bent down, my purse strap snagged a hunk of hair on the opposite side to where my head was still smarting…I roared, scaring the aging gentleman behind me. I apologized profusely, confessed I wasn’t have a very good day, and stormed out to the car. Too bad the hairs that were ripped out weren’t gray. I wouldn’t have minded so much…

By the time I got to work, over a dozen single strands of hair clung to my face. It was stuck in my lip gloss. It was hooked in the hinges of my glasses. I tried to wipe it off with my red woolen hands, only to end up gagging at least one hair. It didn’t taste good. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a gray one…

Fortunately, I didn’t meet anyone when I first arrived at work. I was able to head to the bathroom relatively quickly to see if my beautiful hairstyle could be redeemed. It couldn’t! I looked worse than if I had just climbed out of bed after a really bad night.

And that – that is why I now remember why I don’t wear my hair down.

Epic Failure

Tags

chocolate, failure, gray hair, humour

Worst hair dye job EVER! Epic Fail!! Heading to the nearest convenience store for a cheap cap and all the chocolate they have!!!!

Even though I did submit my application for a make-over on a national TV show, I finally gave in and coloured my hair – I chose brown, which used to be my natural colour. I know it says to colour every 4-6 weeks but in my case it’s usually every 3 months. It’s not a money issue, or usually a time issue – it’s a lazy and/or indecisive issue. The gray is sprouting but truthfully, I’m probably the only who notices (especially under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights)! Keeping in step with trying new things, I decided to try the foam dye that TV ads rave about.

I picked my day, and conducted the 48 hour skin test. Thankfully it’s winter and I’m wearing long sleeves, because I now look like I have a giant bruise on the inside of my elbow. Being creative, I mixed the dyes for the skin test on the surface of a hand mirror on my dresser (which now needs repainting). The sticky goo was very light in colour, so I didn’t give it much thought. I rinsed off the mirror in the bathroom sink; all appeared to be cleaned away. It was Hubby who noticed the stains in the sink at bedtime. It’s almost scrubbed away. Note to self: Do not rinse in bathroom sink.

I washed my hair the night before, and donned my very stained T-shirt – good for dye jobs, painting jobs, and serious “get dirty” gardening jobs. Little Guy was home with a sick tummy so I set him up with some activities. Gloves on, mix liquids, shake 3 times, add lid and squeeze. The applicator is not a pump – you have to squeeze the foam into your hand and apply it like mousse. Time for 25 minutes. The timing part has always confused me. Do I time from when I start to apply the dye, or from the time I finish applying the dye? If it’s at the end, then where I started ends up being on longer than 25 minutes…Of course, it’s also hard to time when you don’t have a clock. Note to self: Get a clock.

I took a damp cloth and removed most of the extra colour that had been sponged onto my ears and neck. I also scrubbed the top layer of skin off my arms where I had brushed against my head. By now, all those spots were a violent purple, and even the gloves were stained a violent purple. It gave me a very uneasy feeling.

Little Guy was getting hungry, so I came down to start some grilled cheese sandwiches. I’ve learned to work with liquid dye, so I can certainly work with foamy dye. Little Guy immediately noted “something smells funny”. He then proceeded to walk around holding his nose, and complaining, “you stink”! Ah, the price of beauty! Eventually the funk got to be too much for him, so he hid in his bedroom. Peace & quiet!

Sandwiches done, I took mine to the bathroom, rinsed out the colour and put in the conditioner. It really didn’t smell any better. I ate my gooey sandwich with my head hanging over the tub so my hair could drip. I’m a mother – I’ve learned to eat any where! Note to self: get towel before starting the job.

Now rinsed, it was time for the great reveal! While the colour is OK (darker than expected but will lighten when washed), I’m embarrassed to admit that my scalp is now a weird patchwork of violent purple shapes. I scrubbed what I could see with a damp cloth, but it didn’t help much, and now my head is sore because I scrubbed off at least one layer of skin too.

I have dyed my hair several times (for vanity reasons – a.k.a. hate my boring brown) and I have never had such an outcome! It could be worse, I suppose – but at least green would fit in with St. Patrick’s Day! I look stupid in hats. No, really, I look stupid in hats! But I think when I head to the school this morning (Little Guy was vastly improved yesterday about an hour after school started), I’ll be donning a cheap baseball cap! Go team!

To dye or not to dye…

Tags

gray hair

I counted them this morning – three gray hairs – one for each man in my life (hubby & 2 kids). They are right at the front where my bangs start, where everyone can see them. All clustered together as though they were conspiring. I’ve plucked them out a few times, but I fear, more will follow…and if I keep plucking, I’ll have a bald spot.

“The good die young, and the old dye for various reasons” ~Anonymous. I’ve tried different colours – carrot red in high school, ox-blood red in college, and finally auburn off and on from there (the “off” was usually when I got tired of having to do it every few weeks). When little guy came along, I cut my hair (which had grown down to my waist) and dyed it back to mousy brown. I knew I wouldn’t have time to keep up with it!  I tried blonde highlights only once. I endured having bits of hair threaded through a rubber cap and sitting in a cloud of fumes waiting for gorgeous results. But the results were far from gorgeous. It turns out there’s enough red pigmentation in my hair that the first application turned my hair pink, and not a pretty pink! I had to endure the pulling and the cloud again, ending up mostly blonde (in pictures it looks gray).

I actually started dyeing my hair because I hated my dull, boring, mousy brown hair, not because I wanted to cover my gray hairs – those are actually quite new. It might have been because my hair colour reflected what I saw as my personality – dull and mousy. And it might have been because of something I read in high school. While I can’t remember who said it or the exact words, the overall idea stuck with me. The general message was this: blondes have more fun, red-heads have more passion…and brunettes make good wives. Does that mean “good wives” have neither fun nor passion; in fact that we have nothing to offer except loyalty to our family and home? Nuts to that – I want all three!

Alas! the gray has started to make an appearance, and I know it is here to stay.  To dye or not to dye – that’s been an ongoing debate since the 1950’s. Is going gray the equivalent of letting oneself go? Or does artificial hair colour strip women of authenticity? Did you know that in a 2007 study conducted by l’Oréal Canada, 59% of Canadian women older than 14 years of age colour their hair? And there’s a whole new demographic being targeted by hair colour companies – GHOSTs – Grey Haired Over-Stressed Twenty Somethings.  Just thinking about all the social and personal implications stresses me out…and who knows what could be popping up on top as a result! English writer P. G. Wodehouse once wrote that there’s really only one cure for the gray. “It was invented by a Frenchman…”It’s called the guillotine.” Ouch!

Still I think Bill Cosby was on to something when he wrote “gray hair is God’s graffiti”. I think there are more and more women who are saying “I know I’m worth it” and they’re not referring to their hair colour. They share the philosophy that it all begins with wholly accepting ourselves and all the beautiful things that come along with getting older, including gray hair. “Only God, my dear, could love you for yourself alone, and not your yellow hair,” -WB Yeats

To dye or not to dye may be an existential question, and I don’t have an answer. Guess I’ll pull out my tweezers and solve this riddle another day!