to dye for

Oh crappola. Hair disaster.

For two hours yesterday, I had awful hair.

The evening started off well enough.
Until I applied hair dye to my crowning glory, that is. The box clearly indicated that the colour was Plum Dark Brown. You know, chocolately brown with a hint of plum. My hair is dark brown, but this colour was meant to force my hair to perform at its ultimate peak. Sjooj it up, make it shiny, transform it into dark and tumbling locks swimming delightfully on my shoulders, with a just hint of plum so that the newfound sun would turn my head into a glittering plummy fusion of beauty.

I followed the indications all very well. I left the dye on for twenty minutes. Then rinsed. Oh horror of all horrors.
It went purple. I was now the proud owner of a purple head of hair.

Not mauve. Not lilac. Not blue. Purple. Purple Corsa purple. Freak Show Purple. Teenage Goth Purple. Grape. Gaping grape.

Then, in the middle of the hyperventilation attack, Ex S’ mum phoned me. We’re still close, me and his mum, but this was a bad time.
Ex S’ Mother: Peas, how are you my dear?
Peas: [shriek] Shit!
Ex S’ Mother: Pardon?
Peas: I’ve just dyed my hair purple.
Ex S’ Mother: What, right now?
Peas: Yes. [sob]
Ex S Mother: Oh dear. You need to do something about that.
Peas: Correct. Help!
Ex S Mother: You need to find a 24-hour Spar. They sell dye.
Peas: [sniff] I’m on my way. Just need to find a hat.

I bought new dye, and now it is dark, chestnut brown with just a touch of plum, as previously planned.
You know how they recommend you to do the ‘strand test’ first? It’s not completely pants, that little piece of fine print. Situated somewhere between ‘don the gloves’, ‘set the timer’ and ‘mix the peroxide in with the colour sachet.’

The Ant’s folks came round to see the flat for the first time. Unpurpled and pyjama-clad, I was most impressed by her father who, being Italian, spoke to me in French. Good French mind you.

Don’t think he realised that half an hour before this, I had a violently violet head.