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cimorenehair dye. the red hair dye.
warning: long story
see, l'oreal is owned by nestle, who kill babies in third world countries, albeit not exactly directly. however, yes, they're evil, so we had to buy clairol, and the color i wanted was a hydrience. there was not enough--the roots reddened beautifully, but the rest was peeking in and out of red and brunette--like colored over with a half-opaque film of red.
back at cvs they're OUT OF THE COLOR, the motherfuckers. okay. purchase two boxes of another color, an herbal essences one.
am mixing this--suited in rubber loves, shaking bottle--when two of the Stupid Boys (tm) --housemates--appear at the door to inform me that they have stolen a b-word table (???) (some country? bavarian? buh?) in case i wanted one. where and why? it was lying around. it is for a drinking game.
we go through the common room to do laundry. table is slightly larger than coffee table only taller b/c is on sawhorses. takes up the whole fucking room. armchair has been moved out of the way to in front of door. we move it. do laundry. dye hair. the dye is purple. i go to rinse it out?
no warm water from the tap. no hot either. it is like ICE. i am already shivering. i cannot deal. wash under faucet with my head bent over upside-down. it hurts my scalp (the water). wash face--same. cannot shower.
'we have a BIG problem,' i tell adrienne in a stressy manner, and run around the room for a few moments, trying to dress.
back out in the hall. one boy wandering, one boy from downstairs in only a towel, standing in the door. 'there's no hot water.'
'yeah,' he says, and looks uncertainly to the tub. it doesn't drain. this morning it was stained with red from last night; now it is three quarters full of water swirling black/purple with suds.
'i DID NOT DO THIS,' i say, and barge past him into the room to the sink. 'it was like that. i couldn't get any warm OR hot and i had to use cold for--'
'oh,' says the same boy who came to my door earlier, when i was shaking the dye. 'you were dyeing your hair.'
'yes.'
'this is hair dye.' the tub.
'yes.'
'all of it.'
'yes,' i say, and start washing my face.
apparently relieved, with a little laugh, he steps into the hall to inform the other guy, 'it's hair dye!'
no time to call repairguys. adrienne and i leave for the dining hall with ten minutes to spare (when it's a more than 5 min walk), my hair still dripping wet and getting smears of maroon on my hands and my shirt. put it in a tangled wet ponytail. smears on the sides of my face closely resemble blood.
no one in the dining hall makes any comment.
i have the conditioner and a towel in my purse (i lived upstairs from the dining hall last year). adrienne calls adam from the near-empty cafeteria for the definition of 'pulchritude,' a matter of some idle speculation ('possessing physical beauty,' from latin). they chat. i lean back in my chair, remember the hair and quickly sit up again.
go up to third floor and the bathroom i used last year. go into shower, toss pajamas outside stall. 'is someone in the shower?' says a male voice. even though the curtain is closed, i am rustling about and there is a bag outside and a towel draped over the top.
'yes.'
i take it the hottest i can. my hair still runs purple for probably five or ten minutes before i can condition it. it drinks up nearly half the tube of conditioner. guy re-enters. 'are you about done in there?'
'maybe five minutes,' i lie, and put in the conditioner, and count to 120 to the sound of him tapping his fingers on the sink. when this is (obviously) not enough to remind me he is waiting, he dispenses some paper towels and creaks the toilet paper dispensers. i am not sure what he does with the paper towels--maybe throws them away. i emerge dripping and wrapped in my towel, which barely covers me from chest to thighs-- 'sorry about that.'
'it's no problem,' he says with a blank/hostile look.
change to pjs in bathroom stall about 2' wide.
campus center coffee shop has no chai. 'chai?' says waitress blankly to adrienne, 'no.'
'can you make a steamer? it's steamed milk with a shot of flavor--'
'an--oh,' says girl, enlightened, 'can we make a--'
adrienne asks the boss. 'oh THAT,' he says, eyes widening earnestly. 'no. we don't do that either.'
so we go to starbucks, followed by cvs, where i spend $20 on leave-in conditioner, styling creme and hot oil treatments for my parched hair.
my hair? is RED. red, red, red, the kind that looks like it needs technicolor makeup. tomorrow we'll take pictures of both of us dressed up (after northampton trip). it'll be another week before they fall into the hands of our adoring fans, naturally. ::waves::
warning: long story
see, l'oreal is owned by nestle, who kill babies in third world countries, albeit not exactly directly. however, yes, they're evil, so we had to buy clairol, and the color i wanted was a hydrience. there was not enough--the roots reddened beautifully, but the rest was peeking in and out of red and brunette--like colored over with a half-opaque film of red.
back at cvs they're OUT OF THE COLOR, the motherfuckers. okay. purchase two boxes of another color, an herbal essences one.
am mixing this--suited in rubber loves, shaking bottle--when two of the Stupid Boys (tm) --housemates--appear at the door to inform me that they have stolen a b-word table (???) (some country? bavarian? buh?) in case i wanted one. where and why? it was lying around. it is for a drinking game.
we go through the common room to do laundry. table is slightly larger than coffee table only taller b/c is on sawhorses. takes up the whole fucking room. armchair has been moved out of the way to in front of door. we move it. do laundry. dye hair. the dye is purple. i go to rinse it out?
no warm water from the tap. no hot either. it is like ICE. i am already shivering. i cannot deal. wash under faucet with my head bent over upside-down. it hurts my scalp (the water). wash face--same. cannot shower.
'we have a BIG problem,' i tell adrienne in a stressy manner, and run around the room for a few moments, trying to dress.
back out in the hall. one boy wandering, one boy from downstairs in only a towel, standing in the door. 'there's no hot water.'
'yeah,' he says, and looks uncertainly to the tub. it doesn't drain. this morning it was stained with red from last night; now it is three quarters full of water swirling black/purple with suds.
'i DID NOT DO THIS,' i say, and barge past him into the room to the sink. 'it was like that. i couldn't get any warm OR hot and i had to use cold for--'
'oh,' says the same boy who came to my door earlier, when i was shaking the dye. 'you were dyeing your hair.'
'yes.'
'this is hair dye.' the tub.
'yes.'
'all of it.'
'yes,' i say, and start washing my face.
apparently relieved, with a little laugh, he steps into the hall to inform the other guy, 'it's hair dye!'
no time to call repairguys. adrienne and i leave for the dining hall with ten minutes to spare (when it's a more than 5 min walk), my hair still dripping wet and getting smears of maroon on my hands and my shirt. put it in a tangled wet ponytail. smears on the sides of my face closely resemble blood.
no one in the dining hall makes any comment.
i have the conditioner and a towel in my purse (i lived upstairs from the dining hall last year). adrienne calls adam from the near-empty cafeteria for the definition of 'pulchritude,' a matter of some idle speculation ('possessing physical beauty,' from latin). they chat. i lean back in my chair, remember the hair and quickly sit up again.
go up to third floor and the bathroom i used last year. go into shower, toss pajamas outside stall. 'is someone in the shower?' says a male voice. even though the curtain is closed, i am rustling about and there is a bag outside and a towel draped over the top.
'yes.'
i take it the hottest i can. my hair still runs purple for probably five or ten minutes before i can condition it. it drinks up nearly half the tube of conditioner. guy re-enters. 'are you about done in there?'
'maybe five minutes,' i lie, and put in the conditioner, and count to 120 to the sound of him tapping his fingers on the sink. when this is (obviously) not enough to remind me he is waiting, he dispenses some paper towels and creaks the toilet paper dispensers. i am not sure what he does with the paper towels--maybe throws them away. i emerge dripping and wrapped in my towel, which barely covers me from chest to thighs-- 'sorry about that.'
'it's no problem,' he says with a blank/hostile look.
change to pjs in bathroom stall about 2' wide.
campus center coffee shop has no chai. 'chai?' says waitress blankly to adrienne, 'no.'
'can you make a steamer? it's steamed milk with a shot of flavor--'
'an--oh,' says girl, enlightened, 'can we make a--'
adrienne asks the boss. 'oh THAT,' he says, eyes widening earnestly. 'no. we don't do that either.'
so we go to starbucks, followed by cvs, where i spend $20 on leave-in conditioner, styling creme and hot oil treatments for my parched hair.
my hair? is RED. red, red, red, the kind that looks like it needs technicolor makeup. tomorrow we'll take pictures of both of us dressed up (after northampton trip). it'll be another week before they fall into the hands of our adoring fans, naturally. ::waves::
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(no subject)
Date: 29 Sep 2002 01:09 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 29 Sep 2002 02:38 pm (UTC)