Another mum has had a bit of a makeover. I admire the fuzzy lovely dark honey glow of her hair. I want some. She recommends a salon in the expensive end of the Paris
banlieu: 100 smackers and one and a half hours minimum in a chemically inhanced environment with a hair genius from Vietnam...darling that is
so not me.
Someone I know who used to be a hairdresser said she could do it in her front room for less than half the price and it wouldn't take long. The trusting side of my personality, what's left of it poor thing, managed to gain control of my decision making, something which I cannot explain. After some wonderful conversation and a few quick swipes of blue stuff on a brush, the deed was done. When I got home and thought to look in the mirror, there was no dark honey enhancement for me oh no: BADGER STRIPES
I teased out the hair, turned from side to side, changed the lighting, but the truth has
to be faced: I look like a wire haired Jack Russell terrier with mange, an old person and Lily Munster.
Obviously the streaks have to go, but how? I searched our local shop for ammonia free natural tints to dye the things brown again, but as I was slathering the stuff on, I noticed that it was not free from hydrogen peroxide. The streaks dimmed to a peachy colour, my hair condition further deteriorated - I can now add Ken Dodd to the list of people I look like.
Finally I hit upon the idea of felt tips, at first a green permanent marker which my failing middle aged eyesight identified incorrectly as black, but even the black one failed to make its mark on the white stripes.
My current hair colour is Edding 4600 T-shirt pen number 7.
"Oh no, you have to iron it to fix the colour" I said to B, trying to visualise my fringe on the ironing board.
"You could do it with your steam curling tongues" said B.
The boy is a genius.
