Breast Cancer Awareness Ducks
I've been blessed with students and friends who support my volunteer efforts with Autism Speaks by donating their time, money and effort at the events and fundraisers, even though their only connection to autism is my children. So of course I believe in giving that same level of commitment to causes that personally affect them and that they work hard on. One of those causes is breast cancer research. We'll be fundraising this month on breast cancer at the college along with our regular autism fundraising.
In solidarity with that, I thought it would be fun to dye my hair pink for the month. I picked "pink fetish" and decided to do it at home....dear gods, why?
The first step is to bleach your hair. No problem, right?
That's bleached. From red to orange. Sure thing.
Once it's finally dry, it's time to apply the Splat (that name should have been all I needed) pink fetish dye. For the love of all that's holy, it went everywhere. On my face, arms, shoulders, places I don't want to talk about. And there just wasn't quite enough--it's gunky stuff. So, it didn't cover all of my orange hair. In a panic, after rinsing the first go-around out while naked at the kitchen sink--first yelling to the boy to hightail it to his room and not come out until I gave the all-clear, I grabbed my manic panic Fuschia shock dye and glommed it on. By this time, I had managed to make both hands entirely hot pink, and I looked like a scene out of Carrie.
I stumbled to the shower...because I could see in the mirror that letting any of the dye sit for the recommended 10 to 30 minutes was going to be way too long and the kitchen sink was way too far. Plus, there was no point in freaking the boy out further and making him make another dive to his room. I stood in the shower and watched the pink rivulets run down my body, wondering if I had just managed to dye my whole self fuschia shock, staring at my bright pink hands in a bit of horror.
The shower floor and walls were shades from purple to pink when I was done and stubbornly refused to surrender the colors, although at this point, at least on my body, only my fingernails and tips were still holding onto the hot pink color (and my hair, dear gods, my hair).
I looked in the mirror, hoping against hope that I had something pink-resembling. I even took the time to blow dry my hair, then walked out to my children and husband whose responses varied from awe to laughter.
So I walked over to my parents for their reaction. Dad was impressed, said it made a statement. Mom pointed out the resemblance to Raggedy Ann and that it was not pink. We pondered on whether it was close enough. And then I thought, well, I've still got the bleaching stuff...maybe I can highlight it and it will have streaks of pink. Off I went to try while Mom went to town, where she picked me up a jug of bleach for the shower, along with her own things.
Umm, yeah. Bleach does not turn hot pink to pink. It takes it orange. I should have known that. My hair at this point was burgundy in places, orange in places, and hot pink in other places.
I'm bold, sure, but this was not the way to represent breast cancer: a cross between Raggedy Ann and Bozo the Clown. Nope. Luckily I keep extra boxes of hair dye around so that I have choices, and I decided at this point to give up on pink. It's now dark burgundy, and all suggestions of an entire day spent bleaching, dyeing, and conditioning my hair all sorts of unintended colors is thankfully covered over.
Fixed with a pink hair extension.
Duh, why didn't I do that in the first place?
Was it fun? Yeah, seeing my husband bust out laughing, a man whose nickname is Chief Grimface, at the sight of my hair, made it worth it. Distracting and amusing myself today from some hard, sad things going on in my life right now, also priceless.
I reckon, next Sunday, though, I'll find a different way to pass the day.