Bruises, Bleach and the Sixth Sense.

So, I guess this weekend was a weekend of mass-decision of hair dyeing.

Let me go back to yesterday afternoon's events and tell you what brought me to this cacophony.

I went to the grocery store, to get, you know, the basic necessities, because we were in the midst of a gigantic snowstorm, and somehow I got sidetracked into the drug store down the road. I walked in, to see what I could feasibly blow money on and saw some celebrity magazines, where I saw Eva Mendes, who I think is gorgeous. I would kill to have a face like that.

However, God was not so gracious to me and I'm stuck with what I have, unless I can somehow come up with a cosmetic surgery fund ASAP.

I digress.

You know how there's just a zillion mirrors in drugstores, under all that harsh lighting, that makes you want to buy all of their beauty products, because, dammit, you're just so blah and frightening.

I wandered to the hairdyeing aisle and decided that I'd like to go from my blah brown to a darker brown and maybe put some highlights in, too, just because I was feeling that low. I chose colors and proceeded to the checkout, where a sixty year old woman (who looked better than me, I might add) scanned my goodies. I flashed her my most knowing wink as I walked out of the store, as if to say 'Yep, you'll see me in a few days and I'm gonna be hot'.

So I pull into my driveway, step out of the car and whock... There I am on the ground.

Goddamned snow. Let it be said that I have this massive bruise on my inner leg that I can only attribute to this fall, but you never know. Mystery bruises are so intriguing.

Later on that night, I get all of my ingredients out, knowing that my hair is going to hate me for the displeasure I've caused it, but excited nonetheless because I'm going to look good.

Minutes go by, hours go by and I'm so excited about finishing this, that I'm wriggling like a little puppy. I just cannot wait to take this out of my hair and see the final result. I go into my tiny-closet-sized bedroom, wash it out and dry it without looking in the mirror, which is always a bad idea, because I end up looking like some reject from a Guns 'n Roses fan club. Regardless.

I look in the mirror and see that I'm... Well.

Different.

My hair (which was once a sunny-ish brown), is now practically black with brown and I have several, several golden streaks right in the front of my head. Very... Art Nouveau, I guess. Very contemporary. I shrug and mess with it a bit more and go to bed.

This morning, I check myself out in the mirror and it's like... Holy hell. Art Nouveau? No, more like... Skunk Nouveau a la Sarah. But it's actually not that bad. I tell myself that I'm just going to have to wear more red, because red is definitely the color for this hair. So I paint my nails red. I put on my fleece Dior robe and begin strutting around the house, checking myself out in every reflective surface I can find. I pour myself coffee in my (what else, red) mug.

Yes, Art Nouveau. I think. All of this red seems to be offsetting the garishness. I'll just need to surround myself in red for the next few weeks while I get used to it.

Either that, or the red's going to trigger some kind of murderous breakdown in me, like it did in the Sixth Sense.

Red, red, red.