You may remember back in March I posed the question: Am I too old for some hair flair? I was nervous that people in my little Midwestern town might frown on something as out of the norm as a 30-something mom of three sporting pink tresses. After hearing some positive feedback from you lovely ladies, as well as friends and family on ye old Facebook, I decided I’d go for it.
But, as usual, life happened, and every time I’d plan to take the leap something new would pop up and I’d have no choice but to postpone. I was starting to think the universe was playing tricks on me–at my mother’s request I’m sure.
A couple of weeks ago, before my trip to Chicago to see James Marsters with my super fabulous blogging pal, Jen, the planets aligned and a glorious hair appointment was finally made and actually kept.
The clouds parted, curly-haired cherubs sang out and my dark–nearly black–hair was highlighted with hot pink.
You see, friends, I learned that it’s a TERRIBLE idea to dye your hair with a really dark color–even if it’s your natural awesomeness–just before you get light highlights put in. It’s VERY hard for the lighter color to stick, even after being bleached to oblivion.
So, after too sets of foil to take the dark brown out and put the pink in, including a butt-ton of time in and out of a brain sizzling dryer…
…my hair just didn’t quite turn out as brilliantly pink as I was looking for.
So, my amazing, talented and incredibly patient stylist, Jaime, booked me for another appointment to amp the flair up to 11, and I went home.
Last week I went back for the second round of foils and cranium cooking and VOILA! Out with the boring brown…and gray…and in with some sassy pink I absolutely LOVE.
Check the video:
Without a doubt, despite razzing from my older, grayer brother , I’m very happy I went ahead and did something bold with my hair. It makes me feel great and really amplifies my quirky, sassy personality.
At the end of the day, no matter what color my hair is, I’m still a mom. It’s just hair. And 50 years from now, when the Brocker and I are sharing a room in whatever nursing home my kids move us into, I can say I took a little, harmless risk once, even though it was a little scary. And my little, old wrinkly awesome self will smile like a toothless Cheshire cat.
Oh. And in case you’re wondering, the Brock-man loves it too. Which is good, because he’ll probably be seeing it for quite a while.