Ramblings from the Desert

The man who trades freedom for security does not deserve nor will he ever receive either. ~Benjamin Franklin

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Location: New Mexico

Author of the urban fantasy novel, The Music of Chaos, and the paranormal romance, The Canvas Thief.

Thursday, December 22, 2005

DeStriping Kirby

There's a stripe on my head. It follows the part, the intersection between the color I want my hair to be and the color nature intended. Time for chemical correction.

Because of holiday budget constraints, I opted for a slightly cheaper brand. The only difference, I suspect, is that the more expensive brand has a snazzier box and is tested on more fuzzy bunnies.

I scan the instructions. There is a battery of warnings:

Do not use for anything other than coloring your hair.

Like what? Dye the cat to match the furniture? Or perhaps as an alternate sunless tan treatment? (The stuff does dye skin.)

Do not use on facial hair such as male beard or moustache.

Heh. Note the inclusion of the word "male." I reckon this means that real, earthy, Birkenstock-wearing women from Santa Fe can use this product to color their little femi-moustaches and armpit hair.

Never use on eyelashes or eyebrows, to do so may cause blindness.

(There's a masturbation joke in there somewhere.) Curiously absent is any admonition against coloring your hair "down there." The drapes can match the carpet. Neato.

Use all of the mixture immediately. Do not pre-mix. Do not save any unused mixture; container may burst.

MAY BURST. This warning is repeated several times. Forget shoe bombs, the new terrorist stealth weapon is hair dye.

AIRPORT SECURITY GUY: [Digging through carry-on luggage.] "Grecian formula, Akmed?"

AKMED: "Yess. Eets for myee beard."

AIRPORT SEC. GUY: "Oh. Okay. That's cool."

(Later, Akmed's in the tiny aiplane bathroom, mixing up a batch of colorful explosive. The fumes knock him unconscious and the air marshals find him wrapped around the toilet, drowned in a puddle of black dye.)

Speaking of fumes, day-yum, hair color is like a beauty treatment and an acid trip in a bottle. But the worst part is the collateral damage.

I can't color my hair without making a mess. Pale pink droplets end up everywhere, walls, ceiling, rugs, and they dry to the color of congealed blood. The bathroom ends up looking like a scene from CSI.

When J-man comes home, he'll look around the bathroom and say, "You dyed your hair." And I'll say, "No."

Lying is ingrained. Some people think children are innocent creatures who learn to lie from their parents. Bullshit. They learn to lie because of their parents.

Scenario: You're about four years old and you've spilled nail polish over Mom's favourite silk shirt. Mom is stomping down the hall toward you, nuclear meltdown approaching, ETA ten seconds. "Hey," you think. "Here's an idea, blame my sister." No sibling? Blame it on the dog. No dog? Elves. Evil elves.

And why do you parents ask, "Who did this?" anyway? You aren't really expecting an honest answer, are ya? Just punish every living thing in the vicinity--kids, spouse, dog, cat, goldfish--and get on with your life.

Anyway, this time I've managed to get dye on the carpet. Big nasty splot next to the bathroom door. Light gray carpet, red dye. Niiice. Come five o'clock I'm in so much trouble with the DH. (DH=Damn, it's my Husband!)

I'm blaming the dog.


Graphics and Content Copyright © Patricia Kirby 2005