So, I can admit when my hair looks orange.
And it was definitely orange.
I had dyed it myself Thursday night to save money. (One box of hair dye: $8. Vs. One trip to the salon: $150). But it didn’t come out quite like I expected. Rather than a beautiful blonde, I was one-part radio active, one-part pumpkin seed and one-part sunset. Sunsets are at least pretty I guess. (Note my use of shadows, so I can live in denial).
I sucked it up and went to work Friday pretending it was just the awful lighting at my office that made it scream ORANGE from about 30 feet away. But as soon as I got to the comfort of a fellow blonde, my friend Stephanie, I cried out for help. It went something like this:
Me: Um, ya, so I kind of dyed my own hair because I was trying to same money. And I’m not sure if I like it.
Her: Oh. Well, ya. It IS cheaper. Um, it’s not bad, per se. Hmm. Well maybe we could add some brown to it.
Me: I don’t want to be brunette. I want to be blonde.
Her: Hmm. I’m really thinking we should just dye all of it brown.
Me: Sigh. Fine.
And so, the two of us treked off to a Sally Beauty Supply story. Luckily, as Stephanie says, my hair guardian angel was looking out, because the woman at the store was a licensed colorist. She went through the options and we decided to give the blonde another shot seeing as how she said any brown dye would make my hair look dark gold at this point – too close to orange for me.
These are the instructions she gave us:
For those unfamiliar with hair dye, you should know that each step translates into about three products, 60 minutes and enough damage to make me sincerely worry my hair will start to fall out in clumps.
Basically, I had to do a special treatment to bring back protein (I’m pretty sure the product wasn’t vegetarian friendly). Then, I had to re-dye it blonde with a special ‘no red’ additive to get the autumn orange out, then I had to tone it to get the hair to look less bad-80s, and more Pamela-Anderson. Then I had to condition again. Then, well, lets just say some eyebrow dye was involved.
– Here you see some of the product mixed together, a paint brush and Stephanie donning professional grade rubber gloves.
– This picture right here is SACRED. You have just been allowed inside my secret hair dying life. Never speak of this again.
And this, well, this is the after-after picture.
Much better, right?
I expect my roots to grow out in about three seconds from now, but I’m liking it for the moment. Mostly. I think.
And, for those wondering who the heck Stepahine is, here’s a pic of the two of us before we went out Saturday night:
Super fun times 🙂
And thanks for fixing my hair Stephanie!!
Saturday night, I made a last-minute decision to go out.
And by last-minute, I mean an old friend had invited me to go out on Saturday night like last week, but he’s notorious for breaking plans, so I didn’t think he’d actually follow through, and then when he did, I was all “Umm, Ok. I guess I can meet up with you.”
But it ended up being mid-night by the time I got to the club and I had to be to church by 9 a.m., so this was kind of a stupid decision.
Some people were like, “just skip church” but youth group leaders can never “just skip church.” So I hunkered down, and told my body that I’d be up all night and then do church and then sleep forever.
I also brought a toothbrush in case I ended up going straight from “friends in Palatine” to “church in Woodstock.”
But then, just in case I was having any doubt whatsoever about making it to church on time, God appeared.
While, actually, it was his son. On my hand.
It was the bar’s stamp showing you’d paid cover.
What the heck kind of bar does that? It’s like putting calorie counts on French fries, or having a little clock tell you how much of your life you just wasted on Facebook . It’s weird.
I mean, I wasn’t planning to go on some sort of sin rampage or anything, but still.
Seeing the son of God just chilling on my right hand, smiling at me, like he knew something was throwing me off. It was like he was planning to intervene later if needed. And for some reason, he thought it’d be needed.
The bartender tried to claim it was a picture of the DJ, but that made no sense at all, seeing as how there was a BAND playing.
Clearly, I made it to church on time. Early, actually.
– My Jesus stamp.
I got a 50-point bonus in Scrabble tonight, which I have never, in my entire word-spelling life, done.
Bam. Look at that awesome word. That is my new favorite word. Except, I can’t even be freaking happy every time I open up some Folgers, because I lost the game.
Did you read that? I LOST.
I had a 50-freaking-point bonus (which is basically a Scrabble leprechaun riding on a unicorn) and I still lost.
Final score: 338 (him), 336 (me).
If this were football, it would be the equivalent of running the opening kick-off in for a touchdown, and then losing the freaking Super Bowl. (Oh. Sorry Hester. Still too soon? Wow. Ok. Ya. Sorry).
The Scrabble game was between myself and Mike, the guy I volunteer with once a month at the homeless shelter. You might wonder why I don’t have anything more interesting than a board game to talk about after just spending four hours at a homeless shelter, but in all honesty, Mike and I just sit in a church kitchen from 11 p.m. to 3 a.m., while everyone else sleeps in the open area behind us, and then the two of us say a silent prayer that nobody gets in a fight on our shift.
Plus, Mike is an evil-Scrabble genius who somehow got 98 points on single turns with strategic use of the letter Q. Seriously. 98 points. With a Q.
How is this not interesting?
I’m fairly certain he spends all of his waking free time practicing because there is no other way to account for the insane amount of points this man gets. Either that, or he’s cheating when I go to the bathroom.
Here are some visual aids just in case you want to steal our word ideas:
– This is a picture of the board with my bonus word. It is very pretty, so I took a photo, which I will save forever. Also, the words “peon” and “few” both were totally mine and both totally gave me crap-tons of points.
– This is Mike’s insane bonus word, which is really lame. I’ll probably delete this picture very soon so as not to ruin my affection for the word “canister.” Calm down Mike, I’m only kidding. (Mostly).