Throwback Thursday - Volume "Do Your Hair Right"

Brush your hair.

Put some lipstick on.

My mother was an ever repeating chorus of these statements as I was growing up.  I went from not being allowed to shave my knees (5th grade) to in trouble for not looking appropriate and combing my hair (6th grade) overnight.  So the fact that my mother encouraged me to begin highlighting my hair around this time should have been about as surprising as the Speidi divorce.
My hair was darkening to a delightful shade of "mouse-y brown" and I flat out refused to chemically alter my hair with a "body wave" as my mother desired, seriously, WTF Mom?, So highlighting was a compromise.
Side Note - What IS a body wave?  A perm?  I had bangs at the time, do you think my bangs would have been *waved* as well?  Never mind, don't answer that.
But just like everything else in my family, laundry, dinner, clothes ironing, if you wanted something done, you did it yourself (unless you weren't old enough to see over the ironing board or something.) So one day while being forced into a family weekend at the river, we stopped at the grocery store in the booming metropolis of Uvalde, TX.  I had been diligently reading the latest copies of Seventeen and Cosmopolitan (don't tell my Mom I wasn't allowed to read that one yet... it talked about SEX) and decided Sun In was the way to go. 
You thought about it to.  Don't deny it.  I mean how could you not?
Of course I went with the Super strength Sun In. 

The bottle has changed, but the directions have not.  In case you can't see the above image directions are as follows:

1. Spray in damp hair and comb through to distribute

2. Something about a sun streaked look to only spray select strands

3. Let the sun dry your hair, or you can boost the process with the help of a hair dryer.

This instruction list is obviously abbreviated by my 29 year old mind.  My 12 year old mind read:

Damp hair, spray, comb, sun, blow dry, repeat.  Use entire bottle.

Did I forget to tell you I thought this shit washed out over time?  I had no idea this was permanent.

Anywho, I woke up the next morning and jumped in the shower to wet my hair.  I stood in the bathroom and sprayed 1/2 the bottle into my hair, combed it through, grabbed a beach towel, my walkman, and trusty Seventeen (pretty sure it was the one with Nikki and Chrissy Taylor, RIP Chrissy) and headed to lay by the river.  All freaking morning.

Then, because I had no idea whether the blonde in the bottle was working as my head was wet from a dip in the river, I went back to the house, sprayed the remainder of the bottle into my hair and then proceeded to blow fry the crap out of it.

It. Was. Blonde.

And I loved it.  For a few days.

Then one day, I am fairly certain it was the Sunday before the first day of middle school, also known as the first year of the most judgmental and awful years of your life, I woke up and staggered into the kitchen for breakfast.  My Mom took one look at me and teared up mumbling something about fixing this disaster as soon as possible while running from the room to find the phone.

I went to the bathroom and then I too started to cry.

Some horrible girl with orange hair was staring back at me, and she too was crying. 

I composed myself and walked into the room where my mother was just finishing her phone message to the lady who cuts my hair and I tried to assure her that I could spend the whole day in the shower washing and rewashing and surely it would come out by the end of the day.

That's when I learned Sun In is like a hair tattoo.  Permanent.  And it took like 3 professionally applied colorings to fix. 

And so began my journey with hair coloring.

Here is a link to the catchy Sun In commercial circa 1992 for your viewing pleasure.  I would embed the video but I don't really know how and my computer beeping at me really loudly and I expect it to self destruct any minute now.

Happy Thursday!

The one where I am rendered worthless by yoga

At 6:20 this evening I looked at the clock on my work computer and started to close down the open applications.  I grabbed my pink bag and headed to the restroom to change into my yoga gear.  I was meeting Gina at Bikram and due to the class rules, the ones that were shouted at Mr. Bikram from a burning bush somewhere on a mountain, I had to be flat on my back in class at exactly 6:59.  I don't want to rock the yoga boat you know.

I realize left my flip flops at home.

So... I put my heels back on and headed towards my car.  Wearing inappropriately short shorts, a workout top, and heels.  Did I mention that I had to walk across one parking lot and through the loading dock, past 3 waiting semis with large burly men who probably haven't showered in 2 days?  The security guard gave me the once over, but not the "damn girl, where you goin?" look, the "damn girl, what are you thinking?" look. 
Really short shorts.  Shorts that highlight the abundant pasty flesh of my legs that I make me want to apologize to anyone and everyone who has the misfortune of seeing me in.  But Bikram is hot y'all.  Like summer day in hell hot with the humidity of say, Houston.  H.O.T.  So the shorts are the next best thing to a bathing suit, and I have a tad bit more respect for those in my yoga class than to subject anyone to me bending in ridiculous poses in a bikini.  For now at least.

So I walk as swiftly as I can to my car and head out. 

I call my husband to make sure he remembers I wont be home to make dinner.  Mid conversation I get a really awful feeling and as if the last five minutes haven't been humiliating enough, I start my period.
Ugh, I inform my husband because, well I was on the phone with him and wanted him to share in my misery.  I also inform him, I have no feminine products with me, and OMG what the hell am I going to do for 90 minutes bending and stretching in the heat without a tampon?
Husband says I should stop by the gas station.  He clearly doesn't understand the cardinal rule of Thou Shalt Not Be Late To Class This Is A DISCIPLINE YOU ASSHAT!!! 
I don't bother explaining just mention that I should get off the phone and call Gina to see if she has a spare tampon.
She does.  Thank God.

So Bikram starts.  I sweat.  A lot.  And I spend the next 75 minutes wondering why this bending hurts so damn much and how many days in a row I have to do this until I look like the instructor.  Serious body envy.  I am pretty certain it will take more than my next 6 free classes to look like her.  Oh well.

And then somewhere in between the rabbit pose and the roadkill pose, pose #205 of 26, my uterus decides to fight back.  And it hurt like hell.  And I started to focus on praying to be relieved of this pain either through a well-timed fire alarm or death.  My death or the instructor's death, it didn't matter.

The class finally ends and I escape to the outdoors.  A quick drive home and one lime coconut water later, I thought I was feeling better.  And then I buckled over in pain. 

Husband brought me 3 Tylenol and a cookie and I took my dinner of champions outside because I was cold in the air conditioning, and proceeded to promptly puke.  Seriously.  Bikram will f*ck with your system.  I think this is where the weight loss comes in.  The inability to consume anything for 12 hours after class.

And then I did the most logical thing I could think of.  I dyed my hair. And showered.

So now I am going to call it a night and pray to sweet baby Jesus and possibly Mr. Bikram to please please let this entire day have been a dream.  Or at the very least to remind me to pack my flip flops tomorrow.