Sunday, August 13, 2006
Pray for Me, My Brothers and Sisters
This can't end well.
I don't know why I keep thinking I can do things like this, I really don't. I am a brunette. I am a brunette with Caucasian brunette coloring. I have eyebrows so dark they're almost black, I have eyes as dark as coffee beans, I have cheeks too flushed to work with FIRE ENGINE RED.
I never learn, though. I see a box of something like this on sale and it won't leave me alone.
"I . . . I want to . . . but I can't. I'm sorry."
"Listen, I'm not on sale for half-price every day."
"And redheads have more fun."
"That's blondes! They say that about blondes. All they say about redheads is that they're very temperamental."
"You're very temperamental. It'd be a good fit, don't you think? Make the outside match the inside?"
"Quit buttering me up like that. I've been burned by your kind before."
"That's because I'm fiery."
"Shut up! Stop it! We're not having this conversation. I am not talking out loud to a box of hair color in the supermarket."
"It's just you and me, baby. C'mon, take a chance."
"Take a chance of looking like a freak."
"A freak? Or a bold, brash, Titian-haired beauty?"
"KNOCK IT OFF WITH THE NANCY DREW REFERENCES! I know what you're trying to do."
"Baby, please. I just want to make you happy."
I am seriously the only person I know over the age of thirty who's completely codependent on haircolor. A woman is supposed to grow out of this. I'm supposed to be choosing tasteful shades that will approximate my natural hair color and cover my grays by now.
I just. Never. Learn.
UPDATE: You know what don't lie? Shakira's hips. But also, L'Oreal Prefernce Number RR07. Because this shit is RED.
Trust me when I say I didn't tweak a single color setting on that photo at all. It's that red, people. Until the light hits it, and then it's copper.