My Time as a Smurf

Dyed black for Halloween

I have commitment issues...with my hair. If it is blond, I want it brown. If it is brown, I want it red. If it is red, I want it black. If it short, I want it long and if it is long, I want it bobbed. For some reason I have an easier time committing to a house or a boyfriend than I do to a hairstyle.

Red hair -the night I was mistaken
for a transvestite.

My hair, fed up with my fickle behavior, retaliates by being baby fine and refusing to grow long. I have even tried to woo it with lavishly thick lavender/vanilla conditioners, boar-head bristle brushes and refraining from dying it blond for 2 years. (Which, by the way, have been the longest 2 years of my life!) I believe my hair is still getting back at me for the perm I got in 5^th grade, followed by years of late ‘80s-early ‘90’s teased to capacity hair cemented with Rave No. 5 hairspray. WTH were we thinking?

90's hair- Sexy isn't it?

Still, one day, my hair went too far.

I was a suicide blond and had been for a while. I decided I wanted to start over and try to build a long-lasting, healthy relationship with my hair. Never partial to my natural color, a mousy brown, I decided to dye it a chestnut brownish-black and have it chopped into an inverted bob. The cut came out great.

Golden blond

Money was pretty tight, so I decided to color it myself. I had always been pretty good at doing that, so I had no qualms about tackling the task this time. I bought my color, which upon examining the box, said it was done on the blondest of blond hair. I thought, Great! This is exactly how it should come out.

Um…nuh-uh.

After putting in the color and rinsing it out, I took the towel off my head and noticed a blue tint. I thought Ok, it is probably just my eyes playing tricks on me. I combed through it, flipped my head over and blew it dry. When I flipped my head back up my mouth dropped as I realized it wasn't black with a blue tint or even blue with a black tint. No, it was Smurf blue!

I sat and stared at it for a moment, then just started laughing. Having to be at my brother-in-law’s work to pick up something before I went to see my sister across town, I did the only thing I could do: Threw on some clothes and headed out the door.

As I arrived at the office, I was greeted by one of the employees, a red faced, tobacco chewing, redneck complete with holes in his 1970’s AC/DC shirt and pants that looked as though if he took them off, they would run away screaming looking for the nearest washer to jump into. He always spoke like he had a mouth full of marbles- a combination of hillbilly slang and poor grammar.

“Yar lrk lrk a smf” he mumbled with a smile.

“What?” I asked having no clue what was coming out of his mouth besides tobacco spit.

“Yar lrk lrka Smurf,” he repeated, giggling.

“I look like a Smurf? Oh, yeah. I know right?!?” I said ducking into the building.

As I walked in, mouth’s dropped and camera phones came out. Gotta love technology!

“I like it,” one guy said snickering.

“I do too,” one of his co-workers chimed, not sensing the sarcastic tone. “I just sent it to my girlfriend and told her she needs to dye her’s like that.”

I grabbed what I needed & headed to meet my sister at the mall. She was arm deep in a sales rack when she glanced up, looked back to the shirt in her hand, then flung her head back up with her mouth agape.

“OH MY GOD,” She exclaimed, “your hair!”

“What? You don’t like it?” I said faking as much disappointment as I could muster. My sister had lived in this rigid Bible Belt community for over 20 years. I knew she would be utterly mortified if any of her conservative, southern, Republican friends saw her socializing with some blue haired freak. I went up and hugged her. She hugged me then quickly pushed me away staring at my coif.

“We can’t go to lunch like with you like that,” she declared.

“Sure we can,” I said enjoying her discomfort. "I can still eat."

We went into a restaurant and were seated. Any time someone came near us -a waitress; other patrons- my sister would make a point of chuckling and saying in a very loud voice, “I can’t believe that you accidentally dyed you hair blue!” as if to tell people that this was a mistake and in no way should anyone think that she would be seen, let alone associate, with someone with blue hair.After the 3^rd or 4^th time she did this, I chose to act like she was hearing impaired as well and shouted, “I know. I wanted that nice Muppet green color, but I got this. I’ll dye it green when I get my Mohawk next week.”

I could tell she was trying to decide if she should crawl under the table or just make a run for it. I decided to finally let her in and tell her it wasn’t done on purpose. No longer able to take the embarrassment, she marched me over to the salon.  

“We’re getting this fixed now. I’ll pay for it.”

Now normally, I would have sported it for a few weeks, if for no other reason, than to watch the horror and embarrassment that came over her face every time we went out in public together. I can admit, sometimes, I am the girl that likes to take joy in other people’s embarrassment, especially because I don't get embarrassed easily. However, I remembered that I no longer lived in Orlando. There no one would have even looked twice at my blue hair. In fact, in a lot of places, I would be considered a prude for not having more colors in it. No, now I lived in the uptight, conservative Baptist infused South. If you have been a fan of my blog, then you know my neighbors already thought I was a drug dealer. This would surely send them into a full-blown panic convinced not only was I selling drugs, but also running some kind of weird alternative S&M club out of my house.

Fearing a lynching, as I already had 2 strikes against me: 1.) The drug dealer thing; 2.) Originally being from Michigan I was, (and I have to type this in a whisper)  a Yankee,  I decided  to take my sister up on her offer.

As we approached the salon, the receptionist gasping at the sight of my hair began looking through her appointment book before we even made it up to the counter. She looked at me completely exasperated, “I’ve gone through it all. The earliest we can get you in is next Thursday.” More than a week way.

Smurf me!

I started my journey back home wondering if I should wait for the neighbors to do it or just suck it up and chase my own ass out of town and save them the trouble. Suddenly, my phone rang.

Brown hair-couldn't find pic
with short brown hair

“We just had a cancellation. We can get you in at 10am tomorrow,” the hair salon receptionist exclaimed, unable to hide her glee.

The next day, I was there bright and early having my hair dyed back to a normal, plain old brown. Since then, the relationship between my hair and me has gotten better. We still have our ups and downs, but it has forgiven me for the perm and overly teasing it in the past and I have forgiven it for what has come to be known as the Smurf Incident. We still have a long way to go, and by long way, I mean it still refuses to grow past my shoulders, but at least now we have an understanding: I don’t dye it platinum blond; it doesn’t cause me to almost get lynched by turning blue.