Bad roots and myopia

I have suddenly become worried about stuff that I would not normally be worried about if I wasn’t getting married.

Last year I was so sick of my dishwater dirty blonde hair.

I just couldn’t be bothered with the maintenance, and it showed.

The thing is, I LOVED having blonde hair – when it was freshly coloured, mind you.  My promises to myself and my hairdresser about making those appointments ‘every six to eight weeks’, while well-intentioned, were outright lies.

So on a whim, I took myself off to Maurice Meade in Karrinyup. Upon learning what I wanted to do, the young hair consultant asked me lots of questions which were disguised as giving me an out.

She gravely asked, ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ and ‘You do realise that if you want to go back to blonde you can’t just do it in one or two appointments?’, flicking her own blondeness about.

‘Just do it.’ I said with focussed conviction.

So she did.

I had reservations about the colour from the start. But it grew on me (pun absolutely intended). People called me ‘sophisticated’. Wow. Hair colour is really powerful stuff.

But.

For a day that, other than when we get a puppy, will be one of the most photographed in my life – will I love it enough?

There’s no point asking The Mister. Frustratingly, he said ‘you look beautiful whatever hair colour you have’.  What a jerk.

I asked the girls (and guy) at work.

‘You’re so lucky, you can pull off blonde or brunette’.  OK, before you accuse me of humblebragging, I really needed someone to tell me what to do. I wasn’t fishing. This time.

One brave lady, Miss Clarke with an E, piped up and said: ‘You know what? I love a blonde bride’. Bingo.

And then I made the brutal mistake of telling mum.

Mums have that gorgeous knack of telling you something, then after a short time passes, you realise the compliment had a bloody weighty back-handedness. She matter-of-factly told me that blonde looks good for a couple of days, but ‘you don’t maintain it, which looks dreadful.’

What I didn’t expect, however was my oil-rig-working brother. He said I looked ‘stunning with dark hair with your blue eyes. Keep it’. I was floored with his candour. This was a guy that wouldn’t think twice about giving me a wet camel bite or Chinese burn in the next breath.

I thought about it for about a week after I realised a couple of hometruths.

Mum wasn’t being backhanded.  She said that while I can pull blonde off, I don’t maintain it well enough.  My dark roots were more skanky Tara Reid than a rockin’ balayage (pron: Bah-lar-shh)

Good balayage –

Drew Barrymore

 

 

 

 

 

Just bad roots –

Shakira
Tara Reid

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And my brother, who doesn’t give two hoots about this sort of stuff said, point blank, that he really likes my hair dark.  To me, this carries more weight than one of mum’s back-handers.

So as much as Miss Clarke said she loves a blonde bride – and I’ll admit, I love them too – I have to stop lying to my hairdresser saying how much I’ll keep up the maintenance. I won’t.

Additionally, it’s too expensive to go through the whole blondifying process to change it just for one day.

So am going to keep it brunette. And after seeing the Oscars this week, I am going to bring this picture of Kristen Wiig with me.

Kristen Wiig at the 2012 Oscars

OK so the hair colour (no doubt hair style will be another post I will be crying over) is kind of sorted. But something else is irking me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wear glasses. Not complete coke bottles, but they sharpen up the edges. I can’t read without them unless I squint like a stoner.

My quandary is I am afraid of contact lenses.

Getting them in would be one thing. Getting them out terrifies the pants off me.

Fingers do not belong poking around in eyes. My skin is crawling as I type.

Arrrrrggghhhhh

It started with a story my Dad told me. I was quite young when he said he had some surgery on his damaged eye when he was a sign-writer.

Then he delved into how, while on the operating table, he could see the big needle coming straight to his eye.

I have tried consoling myself for years that it was a ‘Dad story’ and that it may not be true, but the horror I felt as a child still resonates.  Hence why having laser eye surgery is just damn well out of the question.

Anyway, his chilling tale has stopped me from having sharp eyesight sans glasses.

I have over 200 days to confront this fear of ‘things in eyes’. I’ll keep you posted. My optician will have his work cut out for him the day I decide to do it.

In the meantime, this is making me feel a million times better.

Photo from 'Beauty and the Groom'
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