An experiment like this could spell disaster. I've seen the evidence of others. I've been told about the not-so-good, the really bad, and the green ugly. Luckily I've only had few hair mishaps. Mostly date it back to the perm era, circa 1983. You know what I speak of, if you were a girl who desperately sought out those cool locks where meet in the middle curling was a way of life. This was serious shit. As was the Sheena Easton do, but that's a whole other topic. Will save cuts of past for another time.
Anyway, I got off track.
I can't help but think there's a way around spending a load each time I go in to my salon (quite possibly the best one in town which happens to be just 7 minutes away from my house). I do love this hip salon. Been going there since the day I moved to KC. Love my stylist, love my colorist. The place is very zen in its decor. Lures you right in. So why am I sitting here with a this heinous cap and zip-loc-esque (sans the zip or the loc) bag atop my bean - my noddle - my soon-to-be-lightened crown? Curiosity I guess.
It began in such a harmless way. A little dabbling with root touch up. Seemed to go pretty well the 3 or 4 times I did it. Mix up a cute little dab of color. Brush it on with a miniature utensil that would have been really cool for my Tiny Tears dolly when I was a wee one. Voila. Roots-be-gone. I liked it. It held me for at least another 3 weeks until needing visit to the foiler.
So leave it to me for a leap of faith to star in my own version of extreme hair makeover. But I can't help it. If I can cut my husband's hair (while drinking wine, even), surely I can figure out my way through 5N + a little bleach for some cap-pulled highights.
Will I have regret after the post-color wash and tone? Stay tuned. I'll either have next entry as only a series of vulgarities or I'll be singing showtunes from the musical, Hair.
~ab
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