My daughter is freaked out by my bleached out hair and says I look like a clown. One of my daughter’s friend says it’s hideous, another says it looks OK (he’s a boy after my own heart.) My husband, being the diplomatic soul that he is, says, “well, it’s quite a change!”
Me, I’m on the fence. Sometimes I really like it, sometimes I see myself in the mirror and go … “bwah? Who is that?”
The problem with going platinum blonde is that your whole color story gets screwed up. Nothing I own works anymore, except a few selected pieces, God bless ‘em. And suddenly, I actually have to put on makeup to go out in public or I look like that little shit from Harry Potter.
But I’m not giving up! Speak to me not of dye-backs or other mitigatory measures. The captain must go down with her ship. But if I’m still going “bwah?” before getting on the train for San Jose on Wednesday, I may have to invest in some Manic Panic. Because if you’re going to go down in flames, you might as well explode on impact. That’s my credo, and I’m sticking to it.
In other news, I have about eighteen point five bazillion things to do before WFC, and have absolutely no idea how I’m going to get them all done …
