My Cat and My Hair

Wow, it's a new year and it's been 8 months since I last sat down to post something. Eight months since I've thought about blogging. At least that long since I've had a coherent thought, maybe. Now, that's busy! So what possessed me to dust off the computer and crack my knuckles and attempt using my fingers for writing again? Something I'm passionate about, that's for sure.

Pictures say a thousand words. Meet Pudds (Puddy Tat, Captain Pudds, Uncle Pudds, and other pet names). Look at that face! If he'd been any bigger I wouldn't have survived the soggy bath time experience.

Now look at my face. I was excited to sit in a chair for hours and watch magic happen with my hair. With the flick of a coloring wand my gray hair would disappear and I'd be a gorgeous blond from roots to tips.

I didn't take a photo of what I saw when I looked in the mirror after my new stylist rinsed dye from my hair. Without saying a word she knew she'd made a boo-boo and I just might boo-who all over her freshly laundered towels.

After toning for at least 30 minutes, and then rinsing my hair again in hopes she'd repaired the damage, I was more than ready to flee the crime scene. I scurried home and did what all women having disastrous hair days do.... Well, actually, I didn't. I cried on the way home and complained enough to the interior of my car to not unleash the unpretty words coursing through my mind on my husband. Lucky guy. Below is a closeup of the lesser-red result that night.

Day 1: The next morning I washed my hair, but the stubborn pinky-red stain clung on tighter than spilled grape juice on white carpet. There was no getting rid of it. I blew it dry, styled it like I was heading out to the mall with $10,000 dollars cash that I didn't have to account for, instead of to my daughter's home to babysit her kiddos. I smeared on red lipstick in honor of my decision to not whine all day, post my mishap on Face Book, and not come within ten feet of glimpsing myself in anything reflective. Before I left home that morning I shot the photo below in the best lighting in the house for showing my locks off in blond tones.

Day 2: I repeated the vow to think nice thoughts and not rush back to the salon and beg the stylist to fry my scalp and hair again in hopes of a better turn out. (Question, should I keep wearing red lipstick or stick with something calmer?)

Day 3: Can I just say that smiling is the only way to survive some experiences? As well as praying the lighting doesn't catapult my hair into looking too red? I returned to the spot under an incandescent light where it looked a little more blond than it actually is. The shade you see may also be a gift from my camera. What a sweetie!

New discoveries: My new rust-colored sweater from Christmas that I've only worn once,  my new leopard print sweater that I haven't worn yet, and my leopard print scarf that I wear all the time all look hideous on me! They turn me into a monochromatic no color sense woman. Ahhh! You know, I have enough challenges with color to not have another stumbling block thrown in my path.

So here's how to survive a bad hair day

(or week, or month, or more). 

 
First: It usually can't and won't last forever. Say it enough times and you'll have this chant memorized, even if you don't believe it.
Second: Take action and do your best. Fix it, spray it, leave it alone and smile. Honestly, styling does help because it shows you cared, and you actually do. Caring goes a long way because kindness always helps, even kindness to yourself. The end result is your hair will look intentional, at least somewhat, even if it entirely isn't.
Third: Just like anything else that bugs you, make plans to change it, even if it's not going to be right away or it can't be totally fixed. Too-short hair cuts will grow out. Bad haircuts can be overcome with another trim or a little styling. Color bloopers can be fixed eventually. There are wigs if you lose your hair and choose that route. (I've seriously had to contemplate that possibility and was blessed to skip the chemical warfare that would steal my hair. I'm so grateful for that, and for reasons far beyond hair loss. And I'm thankful for the understanding and compassion that developed deep within me for women who have lost something dear to them because their diagnosis wasn't as kind as mine.)
Fourth: Remember: Until you can or do make a change that you like better, be positive. Remain positive every time you fix your hair, every time you see your hair, every time you think about your hair, and every time you pass your reflection and chance upon seeing it and less than pleasant feelings threaten to interrupt your peace.

From these photos you don't see how red it was--how off and weird pink-red. You can't see how red it still is, or how dreadful I think the final (temporarily final) result is. I took positive photos for self-therapy because I don't want this experience to be a blight on my life between now and my next hair appointment. I have a much better life to live than one infected with unhappy-hair-osis. (Oh my goodness, I've been watching too much Doc McStuffins! Can't wait to see this diagnosis in her big book of boo-boo's.)

I gave my cute young stylist--who is the manager of the salon--a nice tip because she tired to work a miracle, and when the result was shocking she tried to work another one.  She stood on her feet for 3 1/2 hours. She didn't melt down or have a heart attack in my presence. She didn't kick me out after the look on my face when she first unveiled my new color. She offered to fix it for free on her day off. She didn't deserve to have her last customer of the day be mean, angry or stingy so I never threw a fit, made demands or skipped including a tip.

Will I go back to her? Umm.... Good question. Give me some time to consider that.

Pudds was a crazy cat. He hissed at my little Grands, acted like an unruly teenager by continually trying to sneak out, pucked on the carpet and wouldn't clean it up, acted sulky and spoiled, slept where he wasn't supposed to, and then took off like a bolt of lightning one night when he found an inch of open space between the door and frame and freedom in the night air beckoned. I think the neighborhood bobcat, coyote or cougar snacked on his little rascal hide that night. I now have a pretty good replica of him sitting on the bench in my laundry room. See, a hiss is about to escape his sculpted lips before he swipes his paw at a Grand and sends them running to me for protection. My hair might have resembled my cat's, but that doesn't mean I need to act like him. 

My hair color? It WAS almost the same as  Pudd's furry little coat, except mine was more pink-smear tinged that bordered on completely unnatural and teenage rebellion strange! Now it's slightly tamer--not jumping out and screaming with lethal paws, "Old Lady alert! Old Lady alert! Obvious failed gray hair make-over attempt from a box marked down for clearance!"

Pudd's, I love you and miss you tons. I've thought a lot about you since Monday night at 7:23. How you looked and how you acted. You were a wonderful member of our little family (except for the exceptions, of course) and you're still influencing me.