At age 33, I can look back to my teenage years and objectively see that I was not a risk taker. I was never a wild child. I was mostly responsible, polite, (mostly) well behaved and respectful…
      I said no to drugs. I didn’t sleep around (not for lack of trying, to be honest). I didn’t drink until the end of my senior year – and even when I did, it was as “safe” as possible because I primarily attended parties my sister & her friends and their army-guy pals in our own basement.
      Still, this past weekend was an adventurous one for me in a few ways. This post concerns just one such… Fetish Pink.
      A couple weeks ago, I dyed my hair a lovely Lucille Ball orange with a boxed kit designed for Women of Color. Now I know, I am not a WoC because I am pretty much the pastiest-complected white girl ever, but I do have thick, coarse hair AND the dye was designed to go full red from a dark base AND I was unhappy with the inch and a half of ashy roots I was showing at the time.
      So – I dyed it orange. And though it really did a great job bringing in the red – the roots were hideously MORE ashy afterward and I just couldn’t stand looking at it. So what is a girl to do?
      Apparently, a girl who has long desired to do something funky with her hair but who has never had the balls to actually go crazy, is to buy Splat Color kits!
      I couldn’t find Aqua Rush, my first choice, anywhere locally and even though I could have gotten it in 2 days with Amazon Prime… even that was too long for my impulsive self. Thus – Fetish Pink, my second choice – was purchased.
      With the patient assistance of my wonderful husband, I bleached my hair on Saturday. And when it really just went yellow at the roots and brassy orange down the shaft, I sighed, returned to the Drug Store, and bought a box of Feria in the palest, whitest platinum blonde they offered.
      Not surprisingly, I abhorred the yellow.
      The platinum was not much better. And even after a liberal application of that second box of bleach, my hair was just terribly streaky and yellowy.
      Anyway – there was no turning back at that point so I steeled my courage and, when Mark returned from class today, we applied Vaseline around my hairline and over my ears then lathered on just gobs upon gobs of thick, magenta dye.
      It was horrific looking. Like bright fushia blood clots.
      Really.
      Really.
      Icky.
      I plopped a Dollar Store shower cap on and we waited. He was so sweet to sit out in the kitchen with me, rocking and talking, and trying to keep my brain off the horrible mistake I had made…
      Then, when the sixty minutes had elapsed, I hopped into the shower to rinse.
      And rinse.
      And rinse…
      Fifteen minutes (and two rounds of conditioner later), I decided it was ‘good enough’ and emerged to see the results.
      Well, you can see for yourself.
      It. Is. PINK.
      I so love it.
      I don’t know how long it’ll be so pretty or how long it’ll take me to scrub off the streaks on my hairline… but for now, I’m enjoying my late bloomer teenage years.
      Maybe next week I’ll smoke some weed or get pregnant behind the bleachers.
      Haha – just kidding. Already did.
      Wait – what? No… Whaaa?

P.S. The title of this babbling piece came from the illustrious Jaymes Cady, of Jaymes’ Place, a Salon. Apparently, when the roots take the color SO much more strongly than the shaft (as seen in the featured image for this post) it is called Hot Roots. The more you know… ♫♪♫