Roots of Epic Proportions

My hairdresser can’t see me until October 1st. I don’t think her receptionist fully understood the urgency of the situation. I CANNOT walk around looking like a displaced contestant from the Jerry Springer show for the next three weeks. I have roots as long as the Mississippi river and they are DAAARRRRK!

After making the appointment for the first and asking to be put on a waiting list, I hung up the phone in shear panic. When the desperation reached my bones I had a fleeting thought of bleaching my own hair. I shiver again to think of the results. It would not however be my first rodeo with scalp searing bleach in a bottle. I have spent many an evenings, rag towel wrapped around my shoulders trying to outrun the toxic smell coming from my own head. The result was blinding white hair that lasted all of one week before the tiny line of black appeared beneath.

I can say that this is not the worst shape I have been in. I once volunteered to let someone use me as a living model for a hair show. Free haircut and dye job were included. When my mother came home that night there I lay under a blanket on the couch hysterically crying. She slowly coaxed me out from under the covers only to recoil at the sight of my new egg plant colored page boy. To add insult to injury the dye was supposed to be temporary but apparently it really liked my hair because damn if that stuff didn’t hang in there for a good two months.