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I’m a HUGE Shaun of the Dead fan, and the quotation is used by me as much as possible in light-hearted conversation.

My co-workers and clients are impressed, because I got off my lazy butt and dyed my hair. This is a big deal.

I realize that I could do a lot with myself. There’s potential…room to work. I could wear make up more frequently, dye my hair on a regular basis, and do my nails. I could shop for clothes that look good. I don’t want to walk about looking like a load of feces, but most days I wake up and have to fight an ongoing beast that is daily life with yourself when you deal with emotional/mental/physical issues. Which doesn’t make me want to impress ANYONE, because I barely want to get out of bed. It sounds awful, but it’s true, so stick with me.

The other problem is that I am a complete goober. I used to be amazing at dyeing my hair. I could set a timer, do several things, wash it out with no problem, and have the whole process behind me in less time than it takes to make a chicken. But for some unknown reason, when we moved into our white apartment that my landlords insist we can’t paint, I suddenly became a bull in a china shop. If that bull was dying its hair. That analogy got weird, but I’m hyperaware of the white that closes in.

First of all, the directions have changed. They used to say, “Throw that goop in, smoosh it around, wait 30-45 minutes, then rinse with conditioner. Make sure you have a friend, and allergy test so your hair doesn’t all fall out making you look like Aang, the Last Airbender.” NOW they want me to use quadrants, dye a piece the day before (but not keep it out and chemically and smelly??), and separate my hair like I’m making dreads. Or this is Game of Thrones, and I have to dye one section for each of the seven kingdoms.

NO.

I do hair MY way. Massive amounts of color get massaged into the scalp (another no-no according to the package), roll it around, and accidentally touch things. Or fling dye. All inside our white apartment. Then I freak out and try to clean it. Suddenly, I’m Lady MacBeth in two seconds flat. Scrubbing up dye, which always looks like blood, and I’m all “OUT DAMN SPOT!” while simultaneously creating three more spots where there once was one.

One of my clients: Washing your hair out after you dye it red is always a bit disturbing. It just always looks like the shower scene from Psycho.

So last week, I got drunk. And I did it on Parker’s day off, after date night. It had been WAY too long. Parker’s responsibility was an easy one. Do whatever you want, and if I yell, it means there’s red on at least one thing. This worked pretty well. I sipped my bourbon and soda, watched tv, and washed it out. Parker got called in ONCE. An accomplishment, considering one time, he had to help me get all the dye out of my hair and I still got conditioner in both eyes.

One of my co-workers has been so complimentary that I’m starting to believe she’s in love with me. Another wanted to know how easy it was. Answer: stupidly hard for ME and getting worse every year.

But now I look cool. For one month, I will look like a human and less like something that crawled out of a swamp. Although, I’ll still look a little like that. And my hair will still run in the shower.

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