Dye Job – Mama Never Prepared Me for This

Being a woman isn’t easy.

It’s mostly the hair.  It’s a part-time job keeping up with the hair.  A thankless job, I might add.  We’re overwhelmed by hair and most of it needs to be removed.  The rest has to be dyed.

Nobody ever compliments us on how well we shave our legs or how they noticed our eyebrows no longer begin at our lash line and end at our hair-line.  It’s one of the unspoken requirements of womanhood – Tame The Hair.

I, like most of you, dye my hair.

I don’t even have a cool skunk-like patch of gray.  I have random gray hairs interspersed all throughout my head, and they are crazy kinky, not just wavy or curly.  They’re like the shiny ribbons we wrap around presents and then twirl with the edge of a scissor.

I know it’s no secret that I dye, because I wait way too long between jobs.  I hate the stuff.  It stinks.  The entire house ends up smelling like a chemical factory and after all the torture of painting, smelling, rinsing and repeating, I always manage to miss a  strand of gray right in the front of my head.  It usually stands up in a twisty spike, like it’s screaming “Me.  How did you miss me?”

I must be blind.  As a matter of fact, I remove my glasses to dye, so in a way, I am blind.  Let’s just go with that excuse.  Kay?

Then there’s the whole issue of keeping the dye on my hair.  Only.

It’s tough friends.  I’m a messy painter.

Just yesterday, I was trying to reach the wild tuft of bleached-out hair in the back of my head.  When I squeezed the little bottle, I watched a streak of liquid chemicals bypass my head and splatter dye on the toilet.

I use Dark Auburn Brown.

It most closely matches my natural color, but when it’s sprayed across a toilet, well, I don’t mean to sound crass, but it looks as though someone got sick in my bathroom.

There I stood with a head half dyed and toilet that looks like it belongs in a restroom at one of those stops along the New York State Thruway.

I looked at the toilet and back to my head.  These are decisions my mama never prepared me for.  Do I save the hair or my toilet?

Vanity won and I kept right on painting my hair, but every so often, I’d sneak a peek at my toilet seat.

Has anyone ever spray-painted a toilet seat gold?  I wondered, because I still have half a can of gold spray paint leftover from my home office project.  I mean, it could work, right?

I imagine there can’t be anything better than resting your bright shiny heiney on a gold seat.  I bet Donald Trump doesn’t even have a golden throne.

Well, my hair turned out better than my toilet.  If you see me, please don’t point out the grays I missed and girls, give yourselves a pat on the back.  Being a woman isn’t easy.

By the way, nice shave job on those legs.

Google+

Tricia Gillespie