|Bugger off advertisers - it's NEVER as easy and mess free as this|
Tomorrow Sonshine and I depart in our little car for Darn Sarf and thus today is the day that I do all the packing and other lady things.
One of the lady things being Dye My Hair.
You may know that I have a hate/hate relationship with my curly unruly snakey head of hair and I have long left my colouring to my 'stylist' at the hairdressers because I end up with the bathroom looking like Charles Manson has been at the helm.
Before I say anything, may I draw your attention to THIS advert:
Where ANYWHERE in this advert does it say she should have done her patch test 48 hours ago. Fugging NOWHERE that's where. So when I read the instructions this morning and saw that I should have done a patch test 48 hours ago, I was faced with a dilemma - patch test and dye my hair AT the conference in the hotel loo (absolutely NO chance of me doing that) or just going for it. I just went for it.
So far. No itching.
Now, replay the advert again.
I mixed the colours and shook for all I was worth. I put the pump thing on and pumped. The foam was not white, but it was foam, so I whupped it onto my barnet. I puffed it all on to my hair, the whole thing and reader, there was NO FOAM like in the advert. I tried 'massaging it like shampoo' but there was nothing to massage. My dry thick hair had snorted all up like best Columbian white. I took the dregs of the bottle and massaged it around my hairline.
The advert has, you will notice, the girl dancing around her room while her pals wait downstairs. If my pals had to wait an unscheduled 45 minutes before going on a big night out, all that I would hear is the slamming of the door as they bugger off on ahead of me. Or - worse, they would be so bladdered by the time I had taken away the grey, no taxi service would be willing to transport us.
My hair did not sit on top of my head, allowing me to dance around my bedroom either. I had to put on a shower cap.
I certainly wouldn't be dying my hair with a white jumper on like in the advert. Something with brown splodges and smears would be more appropriate. In my case, Tartarus's dressing gown.
Sonshine took one look at me in his dad's dressing gown and a shower cap and announced that I looked like gran.
Fucking children, what do THEY know of the suffering of home hair dying?
I waited 45 minutes as instructed and then knelt down over the shower tray, bollock naked and started to rinse off.
The water suddenly went freezing cold and I struggled to my feet, dabbing at my stinging eyes with my hands, trying to find the towel. I knew what had happened. After DAYS of nagging Sonshine to clean out Nibbles The Hamster before we went away, the little bugger had chosen to wash out the cage while I was trying to rinse/shower.
After a dripping half-naked mother appeared in the kitchen (that WILL give his psychiatrist something to get his teeth into in later years) the situation was resolved and I returned to the shower. I rinsed until the water ran clear.
Eagerly, and as heart-fluttery as a Jane Austen heroine only inches away from a pond-spattered Mr Darcy, I squeaked away the steam from the mirror and looked at my new shiny brown locks.
But what was that, lurking in the shadows? Yes reader, you guessed it - my grey roots are UNTOUCHED.
Since I still have to pack, write all my introductions for the speakers, collate my questions for my two Tarot dignitaries AND get a bloody cable for my mac so that it will talk to their data projector (come on people, if you are offering a £100 per day data projector service - at least have a cable for a mac) I am not going to try to fix this.
Therefore, any of you reading this blog that are going to Conference are hereby instructed DO NOT LOOK AT MY HAIR or you will be turned, medusa-like into stone. Or at least the raffle will be rigged so that you win NOTHING, you hear me?
And Clairol - get your fecking act together.