I'll Be Dead in Two Weeks

Ok, so, once upon a time, I took a dare.  An incredibly stupid, pointless dare.  Turned into a bet, actually.  So, let me start over:

Many years ago (but not so many that I can blame this on ‘youth’) my friend, Nadine, bet me $20 that I wouldn’t bleach my hair.

Now, I should say that today, my hair is mostly gray.  But when I was younger, it was an extremely dark brown.  Almost black.

So, I called a high school classmate of mine who had her own salon, and I gotta say…she wasn’t crazy about the idea.  For one thing, I hadn’t spoken to her in years.  And when I called and reintroduced myself, the conversation was a little awkward:

“I was wondering if you can bleach my hair.”
Silence.  Then “Is this a joke?”
“No, no…I was dared by a friend…” and launched into way too much information.
She sighed and asked, “So you want to bleach you hair?”  Actually, it was more of a reflective statement.
“Yes” I replied.
“Your very black hair.”
“Yes,” I said tentatively, not exactly sure what the problem was.  After all, this was a pretty simple question, wasn’t it?  Just looking for a yes or no here.

She seemed to mull it over for an eternity.  Finally she said, “Ok, but come in at 7AM tomorrow.  I want to do it before my first appointment.”

The next morning, bright and early, I reported, as assigned, at 7AM.  She let me in the salon, and immediately started examining my head.  She’s a lot taller than I am, so I kind of just stood there while she picked through my hair like a chimp looking for bugs on her young.

She let out a deep, long sigh.  “You’re sure you want to do this?”  I assured her I was.

She sat me in a chair, and began to apply…something.  I’m not altogether sure what it was.  It smelled horrible.  And it took a while to get my whole head coated.  Then she put me under one of those big hairdryers — the kind that comes down over your head and makes you feel like you’re an astronaut about to blast off.

She gave me a magazine, and then left to get the shop ready for the day.

I read for a few minutes, and I began to feel a little, um, uncomfortable.  But I figured, hey, no pain no gain.  I’d be collecting my 20 bucks in no time.

A short while later, I could tell my scalp was really heating up.  I mean…Really.  Heating.  Up.

A few minutes more, and I was in a full blown panic attack.  Finally…mercifully…she appeared.  My gratitude came out in the form of screaming.

“Get this stuff off me!”  (Although, I’m pretty sure I didn’t say “stuff.”  And, just for the sake of accuracy, I’m reasonably certain there were some other colorful modifiers in there.) I ran across the room and stuck my head in the sink, all the while screaming at her to GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT!  When the water hit my head, it felt so hot that I began to levitate.  I threatened to slaughter her entire family if she didn’t turn it off.  Not my finest moment, to be sure.

She insisted that it was cold, but I was completely irrational.  I was screaming at her incoherently, until she sprayed the water in my face.  Yep.  Cold water.  Freezing, actually.

Still screaming, I yelled, “then why is it hot on my head?”
“Because you’re stupid,” she said.  “Bleaching your hair is really bad on your scalp.”

When the bleach was all out, and the pain subsided to a reasonable level, she said, “Well, your hair’s not black anymore.”  Assuming we were done, I removed the cape.
“Whoa…what are you doing?”  she said.
“Aren’t we done?” I asked.
“No,” she said, treating me like a toddler.  “We need to put toner in it.”  Like I had any idea what toner was.
“Oh no no no no no no…I’m done,” I said, halfway to the door.
“Your hair is colorless right now.”
“Then it’s colorless.”  Tell it to someone who cares, princess.
“We’re not done…” she trailed off in a sing-song voice.
“But it’s bleached right?  It’s bleached?”  It’s all about keeping your eye on the prize.
“Uh, yeah.  It’s bleached, all right.”
“Then we’re done.”
“Ok,” she said, resigned, “you owe me 30 bucks.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking.  The bet was for $20.  But it cost me $30 to bleach my hair.  The only thing I can say is that pain of that magnitude negatively impacts your math skills.  But there I was, happily shelling out 30 schmackers for the atrocity that now sat atop my incredibly thick, chemical-burned skull.

Wait.  It gets better.   THIS idiot thought it would just be a grand idea to go to my mom’s office and show her my new ‘do.  Yeah.  Stupidity was in full force that day.

As soon as I got off the elevator, I ran into long-time family friend (and priceless intermediary,) Jini.

Jini offered up a small laugh, then a deep sigh.  She had already begun leading me down the hallway to my mom’s office as I was explaining about the bet, my experience with the bleach, blah blah blah…she wasn’t listening, anyway.  She just nodded her head as I gleefully chatted away with no idea whatsoever of the amount of trouble I was about to get into.

She opened the door to an empty office, and I walked in.  I turned around to face her while I finished the story that she wasn’t listening to, but she was already gone.  A moment later my mother appeared.

There was no discussion.  No dialog.  No exchange of ideas.

One week.  That’s how long it was bleached.  Exactly one week…during which I neither saw nor heard from my mother.  That was probably a good thing, since my hair was so short — and so black — that when it began to grow, it just looked dirty under my Big Bird Yellow.  It just would have incensed her all over again.  But it wasn’t without suffering, let me tell you.  I had chemical burns all over my scalp.  It was August, and I couldn’t bear to be in the sun.  I would pour cold water in a baseball cap and dump it over my head.

6 days after my dye job, my brother, Greg, appeared at my door with 5 words:  “Mom wants to see you.”

By this time, it was getting dark, and admittedly, I briefly attempted to rationalize not going.  But the bleach had seeped into my barely functioning brain, and I couldn’t come up with any kind of remotely plausible excuse.  So, I drove over to my parents’ house and shuffled up the steps to the deck.  I was startled to see that my mom was waiting in the near-dark.

“Sit.”

I did not hesitate.  I was like a golden freaking retriever, so obedient was I, yet…apparently unfinished with my complete and utter lack of judgment.

I started:  “Sigh…Mom, I…”
“Do not speak.”  Okay, then.  This conversation won’t last long.

She glared at me over her glasses, speaking in a lowered voice — her scariest, by far.  It’s not the yelling you need to watch out for.  It’s the “not-yelling.”

“You’ve had your fun.”  I sat motionless.  Her eyes narrowed.
“You’ve had your little…game.”  Poker face.  Poker face.  Poker face.  Don’t let her smell the fear.
“It’s time to dye your hair.”  She slid a blank check across the table.  “You have an appointment tomorrow at 4.  Do.  Not.  Miss.  It.”

And you know what the kicker is?  Nadine never paid up.