Last time we talked hair, it was after session two of the bleaching triptych. I was definitely blonde, if a bit overly “gold” (as they say in the trade). Put it this way, after four weeks of yellow locks, I was looking forward to going lighter.
I set off to the salon, clutching armfuls of ripped up magazine photos, and high hopes. After a quick “yeah, that colour’s not too complementary” consultation, it was decided that bleaching the whole lot was the only way to get out the banana-ey bits. Cue comedy paste and shower cap shot.
Up to this point, I’ve forgotten to mention that all of my appointments have been in the (late) afternoon. Whilst on the one hand it means you can enjoy the complementary wine (and I’ll admit, much wine was had to calm my nerves this time around), the downside is that it’s impossible to truly see what colour you’ve got till the sun comes up the next day.
What happened in the next twelve hours still inspires a mixture of embarrassment, weepiness and “I can’t go out ever again” type feelings. But after roughly three weeks, I feel like I can finally talk about it. And I now know there is such a thing as Too Much Peroxide.
Post-shower cap, post-rinsing, post-toning, I definitely had lighter hair. I had asked for “whiter tones” and I certainly got what I had asked for. There was a hint of Rutger Hauer circa ‘Bladerunner’ about the look, but giddy on bleach and wine fumes I went with “Ice Cool Scandinavian” instead.
But just before bed, I caught sight of a bit of yellow in the mirror. Along with a bit of grey, and some black stubbly looking bits around the hairline. My platinum nerve buckled, and one sleepless night later, I was in full on panic mode. Andy had the joy of waking up to a hysterical girlfriend, and no amount of “maybe you should give it a few days before you decide you don’t like it” logic was sticking.
Solid peroxide blond is a hard thing to pull off, even given the best colorist and hair that hasn’t been lifted from jet black in the course of a month. With enough blue shampoo, and a couple of compliments, maybe I would have come around to the finished product. But as we were leaving San Diego a day or so later for good, it was now or never in terms of correction. And as I headed out on a stealth mission to the hair supplies shop, I felt the wrong kind of “striking”. Cue one very uncomfortable “I just don’t like how this has turned out” conversation with the hairdresser.
All credit to her, she stayed for about three hours post-closing on a Saturday night, adding in lowlights and de-yellowing toner no less than four times before we got to a dirty blonde compromise point.
Secretly I hope that three months in sunny Asia (yeah, I haven’t mentioned that bit either) will lift the dark bits, but this golden child looks better with a side order of roots and tarnish.