It's Color Day!

Well actually, this time last week would have been Color Day, but then I hurt my back, and lifting my arms above my own head would have resulted in bloodcurdling screams, and possibly a trip to the ER. I'm talking about hair color here, by the way. So I didn't do it. There was always Vicodin of course, but I didn't think drug-induced hair color was such a great idea. I could have passed out and knocked myself unconscious in the sink.

So. The color on the box is red. The name on the box is some kind of red. We'll see if what comes out is even remotely red. Because boxes lie. They sell all the boxes that don't lie to the hairdressers. It did start to turn orange as it sat on my hair, which is a promising sign. 

It's about time to go rinse it off . . . but then it will have to dry, which will take a couple of hours or so. In the meantime I will tell you all the fascinating details of my evening.

One very important thing, which gives this experience a frightening element of surprise and abject terror is . . . that I bought . . . a DIFFERENT BRAND. Why on earth would I do this, you say? Subject myself to the complete unknown? Because lurking in every box of hair color lies who knows what? There can be only one answer. In the entire wall, of boxes of haircolor, there was only one color that I wanted. And it was an OTHER brand. What could I do? I WAS AT THEIR MERCY!!

I opened it suspiciously, and my worst fears were confirmed. Where was the little container of conditioner that goes on the dry ends of my hair? Nada. None! Well FINE, I will just use some of my own, since they were too cheap to give me any. And Good Lord.  Where is the tube of conditioner that you get to have and use for the next couple of weeks? You've got to be kidding me!! It's the size of a fast food condiment! This is going to cover about one tenth of my hair, if I use both of them. I am sooo not impressed.

Now normally, two boxes of hair color will cover my hair. Oh, I'm being punished for buying the OTHER brand! I KNEW IT! The bottle is smaller, and the stuff comes out like water, not the thick stuff I'm used to, the kind that goes a long way. This is really not looking good. I don't see how on earth it's going to cover all of this hair. What am I supposed to do now, drive to Walgreens with no shirt on except my color cape, orange goo hair piled on top of my head, and my clear plastic gloves, and purchase another one? Even in my neighborhood, this would be questionable. I may end up with two toned hair, and not in a good way.

And the instructions! After coloring the roots: Comb out the color onto the rest of the hair. HAHAHAHAHAHA. MY HAIR DOESN'T GET COMBED. Only when there is a quart of conditioner on it, and under hot running water, does it get combed, and that is with a big fat comb! I have ridiculously thick curly hair that grows in little tiny corkscrews, and they all wind around each other. One bottle barely covered the roots. I'm in big trouble here. I just pile my dreadlocked hair on top of my head, and squeeze the second bottle for all it's worth, and just keep glomming it all around until I think it's covered.

At this point, I read the box to see how long to leave this mess on. The first thing the instructions say: Do Not Rub the hair color into the scalp. What? Don't rub it? How exactly would I spread it around? And what happens if I do? Since I already did!  . . . Is it going to fall out? Break off? Turn some other color? I HATE REVLON!! There. I said it. Spiteful, stupid, evil Revlon, and their dumb hair color. Bad, OTHER brand. Never again.

Time to rinse the stuff out. First you have to lather it all up like it's a shampoo, and then rinse it forever. I manage to get all the lather out of my eyes after a while, and I open them. BLOOD!!! MURDER!!! OMG!! I'M GONNA DIE!!!!!!!!!! Wait. It always looks like this. I don't know why I forget in between hair colors. The shower splashes it all over, and it looks like everything is covered with blood, including running down ME, and I have a Psycho moment. Okay, I've pulled myself together. Well this was just a more realistic red, that's all. The last color was more purple. I convinced myself I wasn't standing in a bathtub full of blood, and look at things a little more analytically. It's not a bad color . . . it's not bright orange. It's kind of like a muddish reddish color. 

Then the more that comes out of my hair, it looks purple. I convince myself that standing in a tub of wine might not be a bad thing. After all, people squash grapes with their feet, right? I always thought that was a little creepy, but it's considered normal. I wait for the water to run clear. And I wait, and I rinse, and rinse. It's not clear, and it's not going to be. I rinse some more. All right, I'm sick of this rinsing business and now it's time for conditioner. I get my little condiment containers, and they each hold about a teaspoon of stuff. Yeah, that covered about 2 square inches. Well it's a lucky thing that I had a huge pump jar of my own! I'd have been in a huge pickle, all right. Now I start rinsing, and more color comes out, and more and more... And I rinse, and I rinse and that's it, I'm getting out. I will just have to remember to wear a shirt I don't like, in case it gets oranged.

Well, the roots are definitely red! That was the gray/white part, so of course it looks red. The rest of my hair was pretty dark, so it's still dark. Tall people, the ones that see the top of my head, will see some red hair. Other people, that see the rest of my head . . . I don't know. I'm guessing it will look red in the sun. I don't really spend time in the sun, so It will look best on the way from the car into the grocery store.

I suppose the really good question here, is why on earth do I do this myself? Do I enjoy a challenge? No.

The reason is, I can't afford it, it just doesn't fit into my budget - now that I know what a budget is and I have one. I really need a better job, so that I can support this head of hair.

Important Things About My Dad

My dad liked red. He would have been happy if everything he owned was red. Since Mom wasn't fond of the idea of having a red house, he made do with red cars, and red pickup trucks. We gave him red shirts, red ties, and red pajamas for Christmas and birthdays. And in turn, he gave me dresses that were red, or partially red. Whenever I see a red house, I think, "there's a house that Dad would like." 

He had a lot of good stories. He was quiet a lot of the time, but when friends or family were over - which was often - and the storytelling started, hysteria ensued. My favorite part of all of this is when he and Mom couldn't agree on how or when something happened. Or even who was there. This was pretty much a given part of any story. Then the biggest part of the whole thing would be about the dispute, and both of them would end up shaking their heads, while the rest of us were in tears, rolling on the floor. (In this case, it's not just an expression. I did roll on the floor quite frequently, and well into adulthood)

Dad loved the mountains. In addition to camping, he loved driving through the mountains. He knew Colorado like the back of his hand. Most weekends, we would take a drive. We would go on picnics with family friends, near a river whenever possible. I was fascinated with every rock I saw, and felt obliged to take them all home. He never discouraged me from doing this. Probably because he loved rocks himself.  I was pretty much allowed to wander off to my hearts content, and he trusted me to find my way back. Which is kind of amazing considering the next important thing. 

He loved to worry. This is a trait he shared with my mom, which is no doubt why they got along so well. He would figure the amount of time (the absolute minimum) it would take us to get somewhere. If we hadn't arrived by then, he was officially in worrying mode, convinced we'd been in an accident and were lying along the side of the road somewhere. Or, we were Missing. His first words were often, "where on earth have you been?" Well gosh, we had decided to eat lunch, since it was a six hour drive. The invention of cell phones were an absolute Godsend. The standing joke between Chuck and Suzz and I was, "better call Dad and tell him we're not in a ditch."

He was good at cards. And dominoes. And all manner of board games. It was pretty much impossible to beat him. Which made me all the more determined to play with him, and someday show him up. I'm pretty sure it never happened. Every Friday night was game night at our house, with Mom and Dad and the next door neighbors. They would hoot and holler so loudly that I would have to retreat to my room if I wanted to hear a television.

Dad was a Bronco fan. I don't think he ever missed a game on television. And when they moved to Kansas, did he stop being a fan? Oh no. If the unthinkable happened, and the game wasn't televised, he would go out in the garage and listen to it on the car radio. Thank goodness they moved back to Denver, and there were no more freezing games in the car. I never heard my dad swear, except during football games, which is perfectly understandable.

He was a devout Catholic.  I don't remember him ever, ever missing a Sunday Mass.  I liked this because I always got to have a really pretty dress to wear to church, and a matching hat. I remember being really small, when Mass was said in Latin. It made about as much sense to me as it did in English, and it sounded amazing. In his later years, he went to church every day, until he could no longer drive, and then my brother Chuck would take him on Sundays. After he was housebound, he would say rosaries many times a day. I will always see him nodding off over his rosary, with a blanket over his lap. 

He could win any snoring contest.

He and my Mom were cool when they were young. They did really fun things, like climbing rocks with their friends. With dad in a suit, and my mom in a dress and high heels, because they always dressed for dates. They went for a ride in a small plane, the landing gear malfunctioned, and they skidded to a stop in a field of sunflowers. They were out on a date the night that Orson Wells did his "War of the Worlds" broadcast. They came out of the theater and everyone else was freaking out. They ignored it and went home. I guess the worrying part didn't start until they had kids. I've always wished that I could have been one of their friends, and hung out with them. My dad drove like a race car driver when he was old, so I'm guessing he was tons of fun as a teenager.

He had a Sweet Tooth. He has passed this trait on to me, and on to my daughter. My mom made homemade desserts all the time, and as soon as that was gone, she was making something else. But just in case, he always had a stash of Little Debbie's somewhere. And store bought cinnamon rolls, which were abominable compared to the ones my mom made. But there was never a chance of having a sugar shortage.

He was a hero. And not just mine. I remember him dashing into a swiftly running river, in his good shoes and pants, and snatching up a toddler, who was quickly getting washed away. If he was down to his last ten dollars, he would give it to someone else if they needed it. He was so amazingly generous. If anyone needed help, he was there. Up until the day he could no longer speak, he was still asking if we were all okay. 

I hope with all my heart that he and my mom are together, because they were such a great couple, and loved each other so much. And I hope that they have all their friends around them, from back in the day. They were really funny, and so much fun. I miss them so much, but all good things come to an end. So this lifetime is over for him, but I feel certain that this was just the beginning. Safe journey, Daddy, I love you.

For Leo A. Quigley. 1917 ~ 2012