Not one of my best decisions

Looking in the mirror yesterday morning the awful realisation hit me – my grey hairs were definitely out of control. OK maybe not quite out of control, the mirror in our bathroom is a fairly unforgiving piece of kit. The mirror in the hall is my favourite, it’s an antique mirror and, perhaps because of it’s own age, the reflection it projects back at me is forgiving of many, many things. Really though I’m not a particularly vain person. I would be quite happily wandering around with grey hair, but only if it happened in one go. All this a bit here and a bit there is just no good.

Normally I would pass my chaotic locks over to the hairdresser to deal with, but after a friend reported to me that she had just spent a small fortune to have her hair coloured, and with our trip to Paris fast approaching, I figured I had to come up with something that would be easy on the budget. There was nothing else for it, I was going to have to do it myself. I mean, how hard could it be to colour your own hair?

I hit the supermarket and was delighted to find I was spoiled for choice. I wandered along shelves and shelves of boxes promising me ‘full grey coverage‘ – which seemed to be the gig I was looking for. Now I’m pretty rubbish at making a choice when it comes to things like this. When I say rubbish what I mean is that I have this awful tendency for the dramatic and so finding myself drawn to wild and wacky colours was a bit of an issue. However after giving myself a good talking to I made a sensible choice that would allow me to cover the grey without causing my husband to have a heart attack. Best of all the dying process only took 10 minutes – surely even I could apply myself to the task in had for such a short length of time.

After supper, with my husband chilling and my son off to stay with his Dad, I though I would tackle ‘Project Banish the Grey’. I opened the box that promised to provide me with my cost-effective option and studied the surprisingly large instruction booklet that would guide me through the process. My first hurdle was the patch test. Apparently it was best to test a strip of hair out with the dye 24 hours before taking the plunge – so much for this being straightforward and over in 10 minutes. So first big decision (ok second if you count the colour choice) to hell with the patch test, and on with the mixing and shaking of bottles. By this time I had donned the plastic gloves and, unsure of my ability to keep the foul-smelling stuff in the bottle under control, I was stripped to the waist. Our little cat Bella had also got wind of this adventure and joined me to watched.

As I followed the instructions to ensure ‘full coverage’ the bathroom began to fill with a foul smell that concerned me to the point that I was convinced I was rubbing 100% bleach into my hair. Filled with panic that this would result in my hair subsequently falling out in clumps I had to admit to myself as I stood in front of the mirror that I had passed the point of no return. Bella of course by now, after wrinkling her nose up a few times, had fled to another room.

OK dye on, timer set, 10 minutes to go.

Ten minutes is a long time to stand in your bathroom naked from the waist up terrified to move in case you cover anything in the gloopy mixture sitting on top your head. Oh how different this all was to sitting comfortably in the hairdressers reading a magazine and sipping coffee. Eventually though, after what seemed like an eternity, the timer on my phone dinged and we were off again.

Now the colour which I had been instructed to wash out was a bit of a concern it was, how can I put it, purple! I conceded at this stage, whatever the result, I was going to have to live with it. Finally with all the colour out, conditioner in, I towel dried my hair (gently for fear of it falling out) and hesitantly looked in the mirror. Joy oh joy I still had hair, and do you know what, it didn’t look half bad.

My elation quickly dissipated. Due to my level of intense concentration in carrying out this procedure to the letter, I had failed to notice the little splashes of dye that had been distributed around me in the bathroom. During the 10 minute developing time these splashes had flourished quite spectacularly and left rather striking purple marks around the bathroom.

So, with my hair still wet I spent the next twenty minutes scrubbing the bathroom in a somewhat feeble attempt to remove the offending marks. Exhausted, and with my hair still wet, I made myself a promise – to go to the hairdressers the next time, to hell with the expense.

So I dried my hair, confessed all to my husband and offered to redecorate the bathroom. Then I poured myself a glass of wine and put my feet up to recover from my experience.

Did I enjoy my chilled glass of chardonnay?

No.

Why?

Because all I could smell was bloody hair dye and bathroom cleaner.