Why did I have such ample supplies of hydrogen peroxide? When I was in grade seven I desperately wanted to shave my armpits and legs...My mom told me I was too young and suggested that I use peroxide instead to bleach the hair...I tried it, the result: it looked like I had Billy Idol in a headlock 24-7. I found other usage for the peroxide supplied by my mother.
By high school I graduated to Henna hair dye and then Manic Panic. Manic Panic was the worst: It got all over everything; marking its territory on pillow cases, towels and phone receivers, like it was some sort of alternative/goth gang member tagging anything in its path with a smear of colour remnant.* My Manic Panicked hair also turned green when it was combined with pool water because of my extracurricular activity of swim team, fortunately most people thought I had done this on purpose. I finally moved onto the hard stuff - Permanent hair dye.
Image courtesy of Wikipedia
Over the years I have gone from blond to black and bright red to dark blue. In my mid-twenties there was an incident at a trendy salon**, where the hairdresser in question left the colour on too long and fried all of my hair. It wasn't just bad, it was awful. The damage was irreparable and I had to cut all of my shoulder lengthed hair off at my ears. After the disaster I silently and dumbly paid the full price, bought a hat and went home and cried. I knew the proportion of the disaster when the hair dresser called my apartment to "see if I was okay". I WAS NOT OKAY, and even if that salon had offered me a life time of free services there was no way I was ever going back to give Sweeney Todd another chance.
When my hair grew back, I had to cut it one more time to get rid of the rest of the wreckage, nearly two years later I finally had my hair back. Today I'm more of a safety girl and I relish my chestnut brown locks. I colour my hair three to four times a year generally within three shades of my natural colour (with a pinch more red) under the watchful eye of a hair dresser I trust.
Looking back, from the perspective of a mother of a daughter who also dons cinnamon shaded hair, I think her hair is lovely, but know that she may decide that she doesn't feel the same way. I don't know quite what I was looking for in my quest to colour my hair every shade of the rainbow, or if my journey would have been different had I been a little more Betty and a little less Veronica. Lesson learned, if your 13 year old daughter says she wants a razor to shave her armpits, just let her.
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*After I ruined a cream telephone receiver with wet Manic Panic doused hair I had to physically prove to my mother that my hair was dry before I was allowed to speak on any other phone in the house beyond the one that I had already destroyed.
**I just Googled the salon and I can't beleive that it still exists.