What I’m about to tell you may shock you. It may even change your opinion of me.
Here it goes: my hair colour is not real. Gasp. I know, right? I totally had you fooled.
The deep red hues that highlight the mousy brown strands underneath are all a mirage. The blonde streak (a.k.a. the evil streak) that highlights the right side of my face is not real either. I know, shocking.
From root to tip, this hair of mine is actually a chemically-enhanced concoction of creams mixed and mastered by a hair genius named Emma, who stirs up unique potions and paints them on me, then wraps me up in tin foil like a potato – and I let her. Heck, I even pay her to do it, because this girl is a goddess. Sometimes, when I leave her capable care, I feel like one too. And then I come home (insert sounds of a car wreck).
I know the Carpenter is baffled by how much money this transformative experience costs, but he is careful not to comment, because I always pay my own way. Yet secretly he will wonder how something like a hair cut, which takes him ten minutes and costs less than 20 bucks, somehow takes me three hours and costs as much as an oil change and a steak dinner. I know he’d rather have either.
“Why do you have to dye your hair?” he asks innocently.
I point to the silver and white roots of my hair that are glistening like the tinsel that goes on a Christmas tree. Big mistake. He’s spotted my weakness. Let the games begin.
“But, isn’t silver a colour?” he says, with a mischievous grin. “Here’s an idea: why don’t you streak all your hair silver and save the money for touch ups? Eventually, it’s going to be that colour anyway, right?”
Male logic. Now the smirk has transferred into a silent laugh, noticeable only by his shaking shoulders. He is enjoying this. I am so not amused.
“Hey, I know, we’ll call you the silver streak.” Now he’s slapping his leg, doubled-over laughing. My attempts to melt him with my death-ray stare are only adding to the joy of a man who knows he has crossed the line and cannot come back – sort of like when your dog gets off his leash and bolts from the yard. If he returns, he’s going to his crate, so it’s best to enjoy the adrenaline of the freedom, however temporary.
Sooner or later though, that dog will get hungry and scratch at the back door. You see where this is going right?
I returned from my appointment that afternoon and prepared myself for the teasing to come. The Carpenter was cautiously complimentary. He seemed unsure of himself. He knew I looked different, but he wasn’t sure how. It was as if he played that party game where they lay down a tray of 20 objects, then take the tray away and remove two of them, leaving you to figure out what’s different.
I am baffled that after all these years together, he can’t even be sure if I look different. Unbelievable. And then the light goes on.
Writing has been my passion since I learned how to hold a pencil (which I still cannot do properly). Despite my father’s insistence that I would starve to death in this career, I remain well fed and eager to write more. They say you should do what you love: I love to write.