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Never Cutteth Thine Own Hair

Verily I say unto you, never cutteth the hair upon thy head whilst thou art possessed by liquores.  Neither shall ye coloreth the hair resting upon the head of thy friend.

Bad Fairy at costumezone.com

Never Cutteth Thine Own Hair

I like to skate along the razor edge of trends. Sometimes I get ahead of myself and have to suffer the indignities of being considered a kook.

Decades ago, in my party animal phase, I worked as cocktail waitress at a wild bar in Key West. Allegedly the very bar where Ernest Hemingway hung out and pickled himself when he wasn’t writing. After work the gang would head off to after hours clubs. On one of the trips I watched a Pat Benitar music video. It made an impression.

Rolling home in the wee hours I got to assessing my image and made a command decision that I wanted hair like Pat’s. There are very few salons open at 4:00 am. The logical thing to do was to cut my own hair. I dug up a pair a scissors and got busy. A chunk here, a snip there. A little more spikey on the top. Even it up a bit. Perfect!

Morning always comes. No matter how much fun you had the night before. Something was different. My head felt lighter. The cold truth hit me staring out of the bathroom mirror.  Oh that’s not good. What have I done to myself….this time? Explanations, excuses flooded my brain. A disgruntled neighbor attacked me with a week whacker. No, I fell asleep with gum in my hair. OK, that’s just stupid.

Ah ha! I did this on purpose, sober and in my right mind. It’s a fashion statement. And that’s exactly what I told everyone. A pretty young girl can pull off almost any look with enough eyeliner and lipstick. A few weeks later a co-worker showed up on a busy Saturday night wearing MY hairstyle. I didn’t ask. It’s true, imitation is the most sincere form of flattery.

And Neither Shall Ye Coloreth the Hair of Thy friend

Way back when, on a girls night out a friend pumped me full of champagne and talked me into dying her hair black. She knew full well that I have butchered my own hair.  But hey, she was gonna save a few bucks. It was all scientific and professional. 2 parts black dye, 1 part white goo-shake well, newspaper on the floor, and another bottle of champagne. We ran out of strawberries but decided against doing a run for more. I was in the zone, baby. Could feel the Muse at work. Afterwards she headed to the shower and I passed out face down on the sofa.

I work up the next morning to screams and cursing. My named rattled off the walls. Oh god, shut up and stop blinking so loud. Peeking through one eye I see her standing there in the nude, hands on hips, wearing a fright wig. The worse case of bed head I have ever seen. The real problem was the dye job. There was a streak of black running from the outside corner of her eyebrow across her temple and back into her hair. On the other side was a white semi-circle of missed hair around her ear. She looked like she had sprouted feathers overnight.

“I like it, very different, avante garde.” She wasn’t buying it. She calmed down and decided that cigarette ash was just the thing to get the dye off her skin. Who knew? A pot of coffee and ½ pack of cigarettes later, mission accomplished. A neutral 3rd party professional handled her hair care needs from that time forth. We are still friends.

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