I refuse to get my hair colored in a salon and pay three times as much as I could by doing it myself, although it might be a bit easier. It's quite the process, but in the end I'm usually happy with the result.
Normally I open the box and only remove the instructions to retrieve the gloves. I've done this so many times I could recite the steps while dancing the hula and balancing a ball one one foot. Of course, the only thing I would succeed at of those things would be reciting said steps, but one out of three isn't horrible. For only a moment I think about rereading the timing step just to be sure, but usually dismiss it while assuming it's the same as it has been for years. If it ever changes I may be writing a completely different blog about wig shopping or getting my hair stripped.
After mixing the two primary ingredients comes the fun part: application. Our bathroom is about the size of a refrigerator box (slight exaggeration, but not much). If ever a member of our family gains too much weight he or she will have to be buttered up to slip past the sink to make it to the toilet. The application in it's self is, of course, the most difficult. With gloved hands I meticulously cover my head with deep red goo careful not to miss any. In my younger days an overlooked spot here or a missed spot there wouldn't be a big deal. I would simply write it off as if I were expressing my individuality. These days, however, I prefer full coverage.
Before today I had enough hair to cover the heads of 15 newborns or 20 preemies, so this was no small feat. Bumping elbows on the walls and trying not to completely cover everything, I work section by section, unwittingly staining ears, forearms and quite possibly the back of my neck. After all of the solution is on my head I search the mirror one last time for missed spots. I seriously look like I have been in a horrible accident from the forehead up and fully expect my brain to fall out at any given second. I set a timer and survey the bathroom. I'm not sure how it happens, I'm usually very careful, but the bathroom always looks like a small animal has come to a very violent untimely death. I have even unintentionally dyed a spot on a Pomeranian about the size of a quarter. He didn't seem to mind.
After cleaning up the mess, changing my socks and rinsing the goo out of my hair I'm normally pleasantly surprised I didn't completely screw it up. Tonight I will follow these steps to have radiant red locks once more. Stupid vanity.
That is a chore for-shore!
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