Root Rage

My roots are out of control. They were peeking out just a teensy bit before I left on vacation three weeks ago but now I’ve got like two inches of black rootage contrasting nicely with my otherwise strawberry blonde head. Too put a positive spin on this, at least it’s not two inches of gray rootage, right? The problem is I went on vacation and when I got back Lexie (my friend and hair goddess) went on vacation and now I look like a high maintenance lady who decided to do something else with her hair budget. As my friend, Rebecca, says, “I think roots are kinda sexy, but two inch roots are bordering on crack whore territory. You know. Let’s see. Color my hair? Or buy a rock? Which will it be?” And since Lexie colors my eyebrows too, the look is really a little scary. I’m trying to act like I meant to do this, like when my across the street neighbor had six inches of snow white roots against her blacker than black locks, but she has lots of tattoos and vintage clothing to carry it off. I almost ran in to Walgreen’s yesterday for a box of Nice ‘N Easy but I know where that road takes me. I end up looking like Kelly Osbourne on acid.

I feel like that guy on the Ed Sullivan show twirling half a dozen plates on sticks. I’ve got my physical health, job and money plates going and the mental health and general grooming plates start to wobble so I rush over there and give them a spin and then Ed comes out and adds a few new plates --- the insurance adjuster, contractor, utility rate hike plates and don’t forget the hurricane season plate --- and I mean all this is pretty stressful to say the least. On the one hand, I hear the distant voice of my mother (may she rest in peace) saying “Just because we’ve all been through hell doesn’t mean it’s necessary to LOOK like we have!” And on the other I feel like I have a choice between “Full tilt” and “Fuck it!” and I’m still riding the fence on that one.