My hair is more Roadkill than Revlon

After talking to a friend about my lacklustre hair recently she revealed that a simple trim of her fringe can buy her another month before she must head back to the hairdresser for a complete cut and colour. Apparently the small touch up extends the life of her bigger, more expensive do from eight weeks to 12 thus increasing her mane's value for money.

I was very intrigued to hear more from my knowledgeable friend since my head hasn't seen the inside of a hairdresser for longer than I care to admit. Let's just put it this way, the closest my hair has come to a pair of scissors, foil and a spine-tingling head massage is when E smears soggy wheatbix across the top of my head to create what I like to call my Cute Cereal Comb-Over. Va va puke!

We discussed colour, cut, length, to fringe or not to fringe, preferred brands for shampoo and conditioning, and how regrowth can be the most ghastly, terrifying experience known to womankind the world over except, however, when others try to convince you they can't see it.  

She made me laugh because it was true. Women feel compelled to lie to other women about regrowth. More specifically, that it (somehow?!) suits them.

You know those moments when you complain to girlfriends about not being to the hairdresser for donkies and your hair has reached that out-of-control, only-wear-it-in-a-ponytail stage? Despite presenting all your best evidence, your girlfriends somehow manage to win the argument with a well executed rebuttal along the lines of, 'No! Where? I can't see anything! You can't even notice it. Honestly, it looks very natural.' When really what they wanted to say was, 'Yes you have regrowth and you do need to see the hairdresser immediately, preferably sooner, but it's not so bad that I won't be seen with you...yet.'

When my mates tell me they can't see the four inches of dark brown hair taking over my blonde head faster than a cruel dictator, every inch of my being knows they are telling a white lie. They know I know they are lying, but I'm happy to accept their position because it allows me to wrangle several more weeks out of visiting my overpriced hairdresser, where - when finally there - I will be so guilt ridden I hadn't booked in earlier, I will be obligated to blame being a busy Mum instead of telling her the truth which is that I just couldn't be bothered getting off the couch and missing an episode of The Circle.

I digress. My point is, regrowth is work of the devil designed to have me utter blasphemies against colour itself. It's like a fungus taking over that which only very expensive remedies can fix. Remedies I can no longer justify to my partner when my son needs new winter clothes and the car needs a service.

Imagine if regrowth was a contagious disease. Women on public transport would run faster than Usain Bolt, trying to get to the next train carriage to escape the wrath that is disgusting, ugly-fying regrowth. I can hear it now, ‘OMG! Move. She has regrowth and I can’t catch that. I’ll die! GET OUT OF MY WAY’, the gorgeous well-groomed girl would scream as she ran knocking over elderly men and women in her wake to avoid the fatal toxic poison that is non-coloured hair. 

Despite the hatred I have towards regrowth (my own that is, on others it is perfectly acceptable because you can hardly see it anyway) it seems two-tone hair is the colour de jour.

From Drew Barrymore to Erin Wasson and many others, a half-brown, half-blonde head is in. Not just in like cute ballet flats or Zooey Deschanel, but a highly desirable style! And while this expensive grungy look has been around for many a month, even year, I still can't manage to utter the words, 'I'm growing it out like SJP' from fear that what I'll actually end up with will look more Roadkill Slick than Revlon Colorsilk.

Sadly my friend and I didn't get a chance to discuss blow-drying techniques, designer hair straighteners or celebrity styles, but one day I'm sure we'll look back and laugh at the memories of the hair we use to have on the way to get our purple rinses. Three months late of course.  

Image of Erin Wasson from here.

Blonde Ambitions

I'd prefer not to compare myself to Li-Lo, but in this instance, I have to.

I must apologise for not writing this week. I was all prepared to submit witty stories each day thanks to Teach being on leave and sharing the caring load, but on Tuesday my world turned upside down. I experienced a personal tradegy like no other emotional turmoil I've ever been through.

Ok, so it wasn't really a personal tradegy and I shouldn't compare this incident to one, but it certainly feels like it. Hear me out.

My hair - which has taken me a little more than 3 years to get where I wanted it - was died blonde. I'm not referring to a light blonde rinse that freshened up my old colour. I'm talking trashy, white/yellow blonde from root to tip. Think Lindsay-Lohan-Skank-Blonde and you're .01% close to I look right now!

I don't know what came over me. Getting my hair done once every 3 to 4 months is a highlight of my year (pun intended). Several hours to myself to have someone fuss over me with free lattes and the latest selection of womens magazine in easy reach while they work their magic and make me somewhat human - who wouldn't love that?

But for some, gold-only-knows reason, I didn't just get 'the usual' this time around. Instead, I told my delightful Hairdresser Kim* to give me an all over blonde colour like Reese Witherspoon or Gwyneth Paltrow.

I wanted a little more pizzazz for Summer and thought an overall colour could be just what I needed. I was so excited to swan home to my two favourite men, in manner of Grace Kelly, and have them 'Wowed' off their feet.

Well, off their feet they were...in laughter at my ridiculous yellow hair that makes me look like I'd got my finger stuck in a light socket and my hair changed in shock.

Even as I write this I am mortified by the memory of the whole experience, because what I haven't admitted to you, is that all of this is my fault. I wish I could pass the buck and rant and rave about my hairdresser not listening to me. But no. I went back to have it fixed....and made it worse!

Here is the whole truthful story...so help me God.

I sat down with Kim and asked for an all over colour. This part you know. However instead of just getting a full head of foils (like I should've) I said, 'What if we just went blonde all over? Would that be OK?' Kim was quick to tell me it would look great because of my skin tone. 'I wouldn't tell you to do it if I didn't think it would look bad,' she comforted. You'd think the warning bells would've gone off then, but alas, I let her go.

Some time later, Kim washed my hair and sat me back down in the chair in front of the mirror. I swear my roots could have played the Yellow Brick Road in Wizard of Oz. I freaked out and the look on my face said it all. Kim was on to me immediately.

'Why don't we put a polish over it and calm it down a little, so it's not soooo blonde?' she suggested. 'Ok, that would be great.'

As the polish was applied I physically felt my stomach retract from my throat to its intended position. I was calming down and felt confident Kim knew what she was doing.

My hair ended up being a slightly dirty colour with blonde roots. Think dirty dish water with the lemon soap suds left. Overall it was a nothing colour. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't good. Definitley not a colour I wanted for Summer, but I went home and reviewed the damage in the mirror - like every woman does after a visit to the hairdresser.

That gut wrenching feeling of disbelief and anxiety returned.  I had to do something to remedy this distaster. I felt sick. The next day I rang Kim and explained my disappointment. Bless her, she got me back in straight away to fix the problem.

I said, "It's just not what I had in mind. I'm happy with blonde hair, but I feel like this is closer to light brown. Maybe we could just bring it up a little?'

Kim suggested putting half a head of foils all over my head with the blonde colour she normally uses on my hair. 'I wont add any lowlights because it's already in there. I'll just add in the blondest one of your two blondes.'

'Sure' I replied. Then there was a little knock on the door in my mind. Little Sian opened the door and whispered in my ear, 'Won't that be too blonde? Don't you just want a few little highlights scattered across the front half?'

"It'll be fine. She knows what she's doing,' I replied, pushing her back out the door and slamming it behind her.

A little over two hours later, as Kim was blasting my hair dry, I could feel the tears starting to fill my eyes. 'Do not cry. Just get home,' I consoled myself.

I knew instantly I'd done the wrong thing and should not have returned to the hair dresser emotional, anxious and upset. Why didn't I listen to Teach and wait a week or two until I got use to the new colour and then decide if I wanted to have it changed back? I might have been in a better position to explain what I needed or was looking for instead of just assuming Kim and Little Sian were communicating on the same wave length.

But no! I'm now lost. Lost in a haze of confusion, emotional hell and self-loathing. Oh, and let's not forget bright YELLOW hair! Aaaaargh!!!

Instead of telling tales about how much fun Teach, E and I had shopping for our first family Christmas Tree on Monday, I've spent the last two days trying to find a way to reverse time and get my old hair back, avoiding mirrors and swearing at myself.

Photos around the house are not helping me come to terms with my new hair either. All I'm doing is mourning the loss of something so young and beautiful that ended before it's time.'Why God, WHY?'

I've since put a call out on Facebook to ask if anyone can recommend a colourist to fix my hair, plus a friend has dropped over her bottle of Silver Saver (aka purple shampoo) to help me in the interim, but it's not immediate enough. You'd think I'd learn my lesson and not rush into any more decisions or colours, but I can't help it. I must fix it now! 


Can anyone help me?

* Name changed