Back in Black

I’ve been wanting to dye my hair a dark, dark, dark color for a long, long, long time.  But usually when I’d mention it, I’d get either stares of horror or well-meaning insistence that it Just. Wouldn’t. Work.

I had a theory, though.  First, my father’s family has quite a bit of Native American heritage, and it’s very, very obvious when you look at them: dark skin, dark or black hair, dark eyes.  This is true of one of my sisters, too.

But me?  Not so much.  Pale skin, blue eyes, and hair color that can only be described as, um, non-descript.  Honestly, I’ve been coloring my hair for so long that I have no idea what color it really is now.

The key here is that I have another sister.  And for better or worse, we look alike.  A lot alike.  In fact, I sometimes have this weird experience where I walk by a mirror, catch a glance of myself peripherally, and think for a couple of seconds that it’s my sister.  At first I always think, “How the hell did she get in here?  I’m sure I locked the front door.  Maybe I should check the garage.”  And then I think, “Wow.  We look a lot alike.  Except for the part where she’s several inches taller.  And has black hair.”

So I figured I could pull it off, you know?  Because, hello: identical.  (Except for the height thing.  She’s almost normal sized!)

And, as you know, I did it last night.  I didn’t have a particularly good reason, except that I was dressing up as a zebra and zebras don’t have red hair.  (FYI:  If your costume involves coloring your hair with permanent dye and wearing a banana clip in 2008, you might want to step back, take a minute, and reconsider.)

But it turned out okay!  There were a few touch-and-go moments, though.  When I tried to blow dry my unruly, curly hair out straight for the first time in what seemed like hundreds of years, there was a bit of a crisis.  Turns out I didn’t really remember how to use a round brush and it got completely entangled.  As a result, I stood in the bathroom with the brush ensnared in my hair and my hands on my hips while I debated whether or not to call Aunt Doodie and ask her to cut the thing out.  Once I finally muddled through that mess and realized that the round brush was a seriously bad idea, there was another problem — namely, that my hair was all crinkly and wiry from the bad blow job.  (Heh.)  So there I stood, looking exactly like Gene Simmons.  I debated forgoing the black and white zebra face make-up for something more appropriate — like this — but realized that I didn’t have a tongue prosthesis on stand by.

By today, however, things were looking up.  Some of the — well, whatever the equivalent of “brassiness” is with black hair dye — had given way to a color a tad lighter and less Simmonsesque.  And the ladies who came over for the post-belly dancing get-together were very complimentary.  I might keep this color for awhile.

Or I might go blue next week.  Who knows?

Note: I totally had this post finished before midnight, but I got all distracted by Justin Timberlake’s all-too-brief appearance on SNL that I had recorded earlier.  Oh, Justin!

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