There are a few things with which I’ve demonstrated I cannot be trusted. For a variety of reasons, not the least of which is “Sharktapus,” the TV remote should never be left in my hands. I’ve also made a few purchases after the realization that I have a steady income, and I’m an adult not living under my parents’ roof. This explains both the motorcycle in my garage, and the fact that I owned the bike for six months before telling my parents about it. And, even then, I got them drunk first. The plain truth of the matter is that I’m basically 15 years old, and sometimes I do, or buy, stuff I couldn’t when I actually was 15 years old.
Keeping that in mind, let’s talk about my hair. Like the annoying Peanuts character, I have “naturally curly hair,” henceforth known as “the Jewfro.” Sadly, my formative years occurred during the period of feathered hair and wings. Doubly sadly, my mother took me to a hairdresser who didn’t realize that the combination of wings and curly hair meant I’d have a pair of pompoms above my eyebrows. I can safely say that my hair during my Jr. High years is the underlying reason for any and all esteem issues I have. The magnificence of my Jewfro was such that it could not be contained by a photo frame. I wore a lot of hats during my teen years. As recently as last year, and even with my shorter style, TSA believed my Jewfro was harboring a terrorist, a bomb, or a bazooka, or some substance that could endanger a planeload of people. They felt the need to have me stand, arms outstretched, as they patted down my Jewfro while Lindsey watched, and our friend Kramer giggled.
During the following years, my Jewfro and I came to an agreement of sorts, and we’ve lived in relative harmony, but I’ve always wanted to do something different to it. With age and experience, I know I can’t do anything different stylewise, but there’s always color. Since I was a young punk in high school, I’ve wanted to dye it blue, green, or crayola red. I knew at that young age that my mother would plotz if I came home with my hair a primary color, so I gave up on the idea, but still dreamed a little dream of it. Until a month ago. Aaand this is the part where childhood me, kicks adult me into realizing, once again, this paycheck thing has perks other than food and shelter.
Lindsey and I were watching the premiere of this season’s Project Runway. Shut up! I like fashion, even if I can’t pick out my own clothes! But I digress. Whatever. One of this season’s designers, Sonjia Williams, has the best. Hair. Ever. It’s black with blue highlights. I perked up. And, rather than comment on her really cool designs, I said, “I love her hair! I think I can pull that off!” Lindsey gave my noggin a critical look and agreed. I could rock that look. Fast forward to a time I’d like to call “Friday Afternoon,” when we found ourselves at Sally’s Beauty Supply. We giddily skipped down the color aisle, but were disappointed to find there was no black with blue highlights. Disappointment turned to joy when we found this:
Saturday night, we carefully mixed the dye with the developer, and we shook up the bottle. After donning the latex gloves and snapping them, purely for mad scientist effect, I glooped the mixture onto my head.
I sat around the bedroom for 30 minutes, periodically checking the mirror as my gloopy head became pink, then purple, then just magnificent. After a long shower and a quick gel and jooge of the hair, I was ready to be unveiled. Look at my noggin and be amazed! Well, unless you’re my mom, whose eyes are rolling while she sighs and utters a short, but pained “Oy gevalt.”