I just got back from Kansas City last night, so while I play catch-up, I’m going to post this classic MommaSaid post about the time I dyed my hair red. Of course, back then I had no idea I’d end up bald in a few years and longing for red hair — any hair. But it’s still a fun one. At the end, please tell us your biggest hair salon mistake…
by Jen Singer
“You look like you need a guitar,” my brother told me when he spotted my newly dyed red hair. “And leather pants.”
My hair wasn’t that red. Not Johnny Rotten red. Not “Lucy, you got some ‘splainin’ to do” red. But still quite different from my usual drab postpartum brown with blond highlights. And that was the point. I wanted to be somebody else – or at least look like somebody else – so I dyed my hair red for the first time. Soon, however, I’d realize it would be the last.
My hairstylist said I’d stop traffic with my new hair color. And I did. When I left the salon, a van full of construction workers stopped to let me cross the street. When I got home, my neighbor pulled her car over to ogle. “Wow! Cool hair!” she shouted. I smiled nervously: She had spotted my new ‘do from as far as 500 yards away. Oh no. What had I done?
I simply wanted to feel like somebody else for a while. Not a predictable suburban mom with a mini-van full of kids making fart noises with their armpits. Not one of a dozen moms in worn-out Keds waiting for Kiddie Kamp to let out. Not the woman extracting Silly Putty from the door locks. Not me.
So when my hair stylist suggested I “go red,” I thought about it for a month, and, when I returned to the salon, it still seemed like a good idea. But my family didn’t agree.
“Mommy? Why is your hair orange?” my four-year-old asked. “Does my hair look funny?” I replied. My six-year-old answered, “If it was funny, I’d be
laughing.”
My mother-in-law said, “Somehow, red hair just doesn’t go with blue eyes.” I let the comment slide, grateful we weren’t in an Irish bar when she said it.
My father asked, “What the hell did you do that for?” I took this to be a rhetorical question, and didn’t answer it.
Most men I knew averted their eyes, as though looking directly into my hair would burn their corneas. Men I didn’t know flirted with me like frat boys at spring break.
Women loved it. “Hey, Red!” friends shouted. Soon, I became a veritable celebrity at the community lake. “I wouldn’t have the guts to do it,” women admitted. “Good for you.”
But it wasn’t good for my wardrobe. My hair clashed with my pink shirts, teal bathing suits and red jackets. I had to switch from “Rambling Rose” lipstick to “Coffee Bean.” A friend commiserated, “Oh, I went copper once, too. You can only wear black, brown and copper with it.” But I don’t wear brown. If I liked brown, I’d have left my hair brown. And “Coffee Bean” is brown.
Every now and then, I’d forget I had red hair, only to be jolted back into reality by passing in front of a mirror. It was like finishing an engrossing conversation at a Halloween party, then remembering, “Oh, yeah, I’m Princess Leah.”
Then at the beach one day, I spotted a woman with coppery red hair like mine. She was wearing a classy black bathing suit, which she accessorized with ample gold jewelry. She sat in her beach chair, thumbing through a copy of Vogue with manicured fingers, ignoring her kids’ plea to join them in the water.
Suddenly, a woman with “dirty blond” hair bopped by in her sky blue tankini. Now there’s someone I could play beach volleyball with, I thought. There’s someone like me. The redhead reading about Manolo Blahniks was not me, even if she looked like me.
And that’s when I realized I didn’t like having my hair red, either. It was somewhat sophisticated and maybe a little wild — and I’m not. I had gotten my wish: I looked like somebody else. But I missed me.
After a while, the red started to wash out of my hair. Women stopped congratulating me. Men stopped flirting with me. And my mother-in-law seemed relieved when my blonde highlights starting showing through.
I took a risk and, for a little while, it paid off (unless, of course, you ask my father). But it wasn’t my hair color that broke me from my suburban housewife mold. It was the act of trying to be different, to shake things up a bit, to do what no one expected me to do. And while I won’t dye my hair red again, I won’t go back to my old drab brown, either. But I wouldn’t mind
stopping traffic once in a while.
Share, share, that’s fair: Tell us your biggest hair salon mistake.
I have had a few mistakes to my own hair, It been bleached already a few times so there is not much else I can do with it. Great site by the way I love it
Hey Tracy, how did you go blonde for just a month? Did you have to dye it back?
I’ve done every color you can imagine, literally. Purple, blue, red, pink, green… green was surprisingly pretty. Emerald green. A comedian on stage flirted with me in the audience, repeatedly saying things like, “I can’t believe I’m attracted to a girl with green hair.” Too bad I have no pictures of that time. I don’t regret any of those.
Anyway, my big mistake was the poodle perm, along with the chin-length cut, way back in the 7th grade. School pictures were to cry for.
Mine was on purpose. The first time I went through chemo I went bald, bald, bald. I got a henna tattoo on my head.
The second time, I was told I wouldn’t lose my hair, perhaps some thinning. Out it came. I showed up at the treatment center and the nurses all said ” Wow! Never seen anyone lose that much hair on this treatment.”
But, before it went, I also went red.
I hadn’t thought about it in time the first time (too busy surviving). I thought this would be the perfect time to try blond (until becoming pretty grey by 35, my hair was quite dark). My friend Tori (the one who tracked down the henna artist) talked me out of that and into red. She even did it for me in her kitchen sink while our kids ran around outside.
They saw the results before I did. They liked it better than having me bald….
I think the person who liked it least was my father, in my opinion, because, unlike Tracy, I looked more like my grandmother with grey hair than with the red.
It faded (and much fell out). My latest chemo treatment has had no effect on my hair at all…. so far…..
After spending three and a half years growing my layers out, I finally had my curly, dark brown hair at a length I liked, and it was all ONE length (except for the long bangs). I went in for a mid-winter trim to lift my spirits. But I hadn’t had my coffee yet, and somewhere between my brain and my mouth, “just a trim and leave the bangs long” became “just cut a little and leave long layers.” She followed my instructions exactly.
So I’m back to my yucky, bushy layers and have to start growing them out again, with no one to blame but myself. From now on, I only make afternoon hair appointments to insure I’m fully awake!
Hahaha, both of you. I feel much better now that I am not alone. Black hair turned blond and blond hair turned black. Classic.
Anyone else have a hair salon mistake story?
Hey Jen,
I did the same thing last year when I went blonde.. for the same reasons!. It lasted all of a month. Every time I passed the a reflective surface I did a double take because I thought my grandmother was following me. I loved her dearly but the woman weighed about 180 pounds and for some reason, the blonde hair made me look just like her. I also had major problems with the clothing conflicts and makeup. No one said I looked like Marilyn Monroe and young men did not flirt with me. My son did say I looked like Billy Idol. Not a compliment.
I went through an early middle age crisis a few years ago. My hair dresser begged me not to do it, but what does she know?! Just like you I wanted to be somebody else and I surely wasn’t going to spend money on something that people won’t even notice. I was on a mission to find my inner Halle Berry! My hair dresser practically cried while cutting my long blond curls and dying them jet black. And then I cried. The end.
Forever Curly Blond