So last Friday Doug and I engaged in something that either brings two people closer together or ruins a relationship: we highlighted my hair together.
I had gotten a new haircut a few days earlier and the stylist suggested some highlights. I was considering getting them professionally done, until I was at a drugstore and saw that one of the at-home highlighting kits only cost $7.99 (compared with $90 plus at salons). I was feeling adventurous and slightly manic so I bought it. How hard could it be?
Friday night I started going through the stuff in the kit: there was this plastic bonnet-like thing with holes in it; some sort of hook for yanking the hair through the holes; and a lot of safety warnings. This was going to be fun!
I strapped the bonnet on and immediately began to sweat (it was 25 celsius in the bathroom and I was nervous). I went into the basement where it was cooler and started pulling chunks of hair through the holes with this plastic hook thing. By the time I had finished the front section, my eyes were completely crossed and my arms were cramping. That’s when I conscripted Doug.
He spent the better part of half an hour doing his best not to puncture my scalp with the plastic tool of death. He was trying to be gentle, but it’s tough to know what’s going on under one of those bonnets. Actually, it kind of reminded me of a Grey’s Anatomy episode where one of the trainee surgeons was getting advice over the phone on how to drill through someone’s scalp… except without the power tools or quite as much blood.
Now I was quite sure that no one would see me looking like a cross between Medusa and a chemo patient. Unfortunately, I did not count on Doug’s mum coming back to the house on her way up to the cottage. Boy did she get the fright of her life – that is, before she went and got the camera.
After she left – still laughing – we went and applied the baby blue hair dye to the stringy bits coming out of the bonnet. We had to protect the hair sticking out from under the bonnet, though, so Doug trotted off and returned with scotch tape and a grocery bag ripped in half. Then there was the clear plastic bag I had to put on top of all this.
By this time I was beyond shame, but I was starting to panic a little. Maybe that’s why I didn’t realize that I’d picked up a good towel (and not the ratty one I thought I’d gotten) to wipe the dye off a strip to check on the colour. Oops! Now Doug was off and running to the laundry room to try and get peroxide out of his parents’ linens.
In the end, I don’t have green streaks in my hair and Doug and I are still together.
Even so, maybe next time I’ll go to the salon.