I have always had my hair professionally done since my later college days. Store-bought color hasn’t touched this head since around the time I could legally drink in the United States of America. Please don’t think I’m judging you should you use it; if a box of L’Oreal works for you, more power to you. It does not work for me. At all. And have you met me? I would end up coloring two cats, half my bathroom and my elbows by accident. It wouldn’t be attractive.
I was fortunately born a natural blonde. Well let’s back up, I actually didn’t have hair till I was 3 years old. And what I did have was so blonde you couldn’t see it. Unfortunately it did not stay that way. Genetics could have saved me so much money had they not called a plot twist when it came to my hair. What I was left with was what some call dishwater blonde. And they must mean the water that’s left after you let a couple of used skillets soak overnight, right? Cause that’s what it looks like to me. I have to either go much darker or much lighter. Except for a year in LA of what I call my Carrie Bradshaw break-up hair (read: extremely dark) I’ve mostly been 1,495 shades of blonde.
Because of my current financial situation, I’ve not had my hair done in at least three months. I am pretty sure it’s closer to four. This is absolute sacrilege in my world. Come hell or high (dish)water I’ve always had my hair done consistently every 6-8 weeks. Outside of my ridiculous makeup collection, it’s pretty much the only high maintenance habit in my life for now (dear imaginary future husband, two words: Michael and Kors). So basically what I’m saying is I’m officially dying over here. It really hurts us, precious. Luckily for me and everyone who has to look at me, I picked up a little work this week and it’s going straight into the hands of a hairstylist at some point in the near future. Come on y’all, priorities. And it can’t come a minute too soon, I have a few interviews coming up and oh that’s right, I had a total come apart last night.
Um, I wasn’t quite aware of how much GRAY hair I had. It’s always been out of sight out of mind. And I like it that way. Because I am an emotional cutter and what does an emotional cutter do when she sees she has multiple strands of grey hair? She also imagines the little lines around her eyes just got 15 times bigger, which naturally segues into thinking about all of things she hasn’t accomplished in her life. How she has a yet another birthday in 41 days (cause she of course pulled out the calendar and counted), her career is completely derailed and she has no husband and no children. And gray hair and fine lines OBVIOUSLY MEAN THERE IS NO CHANCE OF IT EVER HAPPENING. Clearly!
No idea why I’m single either.
How about them Stars?
No really, folks. I promise I’m okay. Relatively speaking. I had someone to help talk me off the ledge, for which I’m thankful. Well at least I made it appear that way. What really happened was me tossing and turning, reading half a book until almost 2 a.m. and asking myself for the 1,000th time if I should have stayed in California, should I have stayed married (this is a definite no), should I have joined a nunnery like I’ve threatened multiple times…you know, perfectly normal questions to ask oneself because of like, five gray hairs. I know good and well I am not alone in this nor am I the only woman to ever spiral over it. At least it’s not like Samantha in that one episode of Sex and the City…YOU KNOW WHICH ONE I’M TALKING ABOUT.
Let’s not even go there. Let’s go to Fresh and buy ALL THE BLACK TEA AGE DELAY PRODUCTS. K?