Phoebe, her brows furrowed and mouth twisted, told me that she found my rambling on my It’s Never Been About Being Ugly post on my blogspot. She semi-lamented that there was nothing she could do about the scars but she brightened as she pointed to the dye. If she could do nothing else, about my scars or hands or height, she could at least, she beamed, make my hair the color I wanted it.
A box of dye and one stained bathroom sink later, plus all the hilariously awful middle stages where my hair, stiff with dye, stood straight up like a poor impersonation of Edward Scissorhands, I now have black hair. I am aware that, overall, it doesn’t make a great impact on my general appearance, especially since dark brown to black is the most minimal alteration possible, but anyone who, like I am, is hyper-critical and hyper-aware of their appearance can doubtless understand. It’s a small difference that I not only notice, but that makes a great impact in how I feel about myself. And that makes it a pretty fantastic thing.
Pheebs is a wonderful person, a very laid back and very considerate one. I am touched that she went out of her way to make me happy. She may not have stayed married to Orson or decided that being a mother to Dea and me was her thing, but she’s remained a really good solid friend to all of us.
When I got back home and Dea embraced me, she stuck her nose in my hair and then wrinkled it in disgust. She said I smelled of chemicals and whatever flowery scented shampoo Phoebe had used to try to mask it and demanded to know what I had done to it.
Now, Dea’s not one to talk. She has her own, rather epic if I may be so bold as to say, battles with her hair. I mean, I think her hair is perfect, that she’s perfect, no matter what, but what she thinks, and wants to do about it, is more important than any thought I have on the topic. And Phoebe helps her too with the relaxers and straighteners and whatever else they use. All I know is that, if I wander near the bathroom, it sounds like something out of a torture chamber, and peering in with the tools strewn around does not help that impression. So Dea knows and understands about the hair even if her focus is more on the texture than the color.
I told her about Phoebe, about wanting my hair darker although I didn’t tell her how Pheebs knew since Dea doesn’t know about my internetting, about Pheebs turning the bathroom black for me. Dea, wanting to be completely fair before pronouncing final judgment, stuck her fingers in it and combed them through several times before proclaiming that my hair was softer than usual and that she likes that I’ve kept it long… which kind of throws a monkey wrench into the plan to have it cut soon.
She was braiding it (I let her do whatever she wants to me) when Orson got in (she was telling me about how she “pwned” her professor by correcting some equation that went right over my head, did I mention that she’s not just perfect but brilliant?). Orson didn’t notice right away but after a couple hours he finally stopped in the living room, stared at me, and then asked me what was different. I think he was even more excited about it than I was when I told him because he ran and got some black makeup and insisted on painting me up like The Crow.
In conclusion, I had a great day because of a very thoughtful woman, Dea approved which made my happiness official, and now all you sweet followers of mine are going to get spammed with Crow selfies (no, not really, I only have a couple) because I am (almost) officially out of other pictures for the picture-a-day attempt and I still have almost two weeks to go yet.
Sorry!
But, here’s the first! Picture-a-Day: Day 17
(And the colour problems are still happening.... sigh.... better quality here)
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