When the phone rings after midnight, it’s never a good thing. The woman sobbing on the other end didn’t sound good either.
“Stacie, slow down,” I stammered, trying to hoist one eye open. “What’s wrong? Are you OK?”
Straining to pick out words through all the sobs and sniffles, I discerned that my friend, who is not a licensed cosmetologist, had attempted to color her own roots without adult supervision. The only casualty was her hair.
Stacie’s “normal color” isn’t something you’ll see in nature unless you’re on a Colorado ski slope at high noon. (And I hope you’re wearing shades.) But now, it had apparently entered the realm of abstract art.
“So, let me understand this. Your hair isn’t platinum anymore?” I said.
“First it was green, then I tried toner. Now the ends are violet and the middle is turning orange,” she said, still sobbing. “You’re an artist. Get over here.”
The best time to reason with female friends isn’t at 3 a.m. during a color catastrophe. Unless she wanted her head painted, I probably couldn’t help much, but I promised to bring my acrylics to her house first thing in the morning, just in case.
When I arrived, Stacie was in her undies, crouching frog-style on the bathroom counter, holding her newly sea-foamed ends up to the mirror. She was right to panic. She looked like something that just crawled out of an extraterrestrial swamp.
Apparently, she’d been testing a new brand of color that turned out much darker than her regular shade, so she followed it up with a peroxide rinse and more color. Now she had a full-fledged rainbow riot going, plus a few Kelly Osbourne-lavender strands sprinkled in. It was pretty scary.
“You don’t need me. You need a chemist,” I said. “Too bad there’s not a 911 number for hair emergencies like this.”
Actually, there is. Stacie spent most of the night on the phone with them, but her problems had only gotten worse. This was right up there with the time she waxed her legs together and had to hop around for a week.
We started searching the Web for answers. One site advised washing her hair with ketchup to cancel out the green tones. We used five bottles, but the green wouldn’t budge. Then we tried dish detergent and baking soda, like the next website suggested. That didn’t work either, although the tangerine parts seemed brighter.
“How about a car wash?” I asked, as Stacie shot me one of her poison-dart looks.
After five hours of color lifters, ash toners, dandruff shampoos and Murphy’s Oil Soap, I suggested the unthinkable: “Call your salon. Confess your sins and beg forgiveness. You can’t go through life impersonating Lady Gaga.”
So we hid Stacie under a tarp and snuck her in the back door of her upscale salon, where her spurned colorist was waiting. We were expecting a lecture, but Lemar plopped her down in his chair and went right to work, no questions asked. He must handle so much DIY color correction that he doesn’t waste time getting cranky anymore. Pretty soon, Stacie’s mess looked like hair again. Blonde, without the calico highlights.
“Remind me never do this again,” Stacie said, as she forked over $275, plus tip, for root rehab and structural repair.
At those prices, if there is a next time, I’ll gladly paint her head.
Jan A. Igoe advises seeking professional help before performing chemistry experiments on your own head. But if you forget, share your disasters with her here.