When I went back to pink and red hair a month ago, I forgot about something that always happens when I have high-maintenance hair: the Pink Creep.
It starts the minute you get out of the shower. No, it starts when you first rinse the excess color out of your hair. Suddenly the water’s running and I’m in that scene from Carrie, except instead of starting my period in a really faucetty, axe-murder-bleeding sort of way, it’s like a head injury gone really wrong. Instead of screaming girls pelting me with Kotex, I should have screaming doctors, pelting me with the results of my CT scan. Or something.
I was a brunette when I moved into this apartment, and everything was pristine. “This time the Pink Creep will be different,” I tell myself. “The shower won’t turn pink. My neck won’t turn pink.” Lies, all of them.
After the grout and the shower curtain develop a pinkish tint, the Pink Creep spreads to other parts of my life. I use a dark old pillowcase so the pink won’t befoul the rest of my cherry-patterned sheets, but somehow the pink still gets all around the top of the bed. On that first day of the fresh redye I am always startled to discover later while peeing that my thong has turned pink…I now have a pink ass. The stems of my glasses are pink. Finally, things I touch a lot turn pink, like light switches and my wallet, which means I have pink fingers most of the time.
There is one really thing nice about having pink and red hair, aside from the fact that it satisfies the same sparkle-loving raccoon side of me that makes me obsessively wear initialed bling and giant hoop earrings, and that’s the fact that everyone loves a pinky-haired mom. People hoot at me when I’m alone, or assume that I want to buy or sell drugs or am a mean punk-rocker, but when I am the pinky-haired mom on the bus, with my pinky-haired little kid, everyone smiles at us because I am suddenly accessible, even more so than when I was a brunette. This is okay with me, because I love to talk about my kid. Who doesn’t?