Pepper has wanted to dye her hair for a very long time. As a three-year-old, she once brought me a box of black hair dye in the grocery store and asked if we could make her look like the woman on the front. I managed to convince her that little girls didn’t dye their hair, and she put the box back, but always in her mind, all these years, has been the desire to dye her hair.
For a while, she wanted peach. Then it was green. Then blond. I said “no”, “no”, and “no”. “Children don’t dye their hair,” I told her. And then, suddenly, children were dying their hair. And teenagers. And middle-aged women. Even grandmothers! A teacher I know added hot pink. An older woman at our church arrived one day with purple bangs. Everywhere I turned, I was seeing technicolor hair.
Meanwhile, Pepper’s long-seated resolve to dye had moved from simmer to boil. Blue was the color now. Pepper had to have blue hair.
And so, to celebrate the end of her eighth grade year, I scheduled an appointment at a salon. (For a brief moment, I considered dying her hair myself, but when I heard one YouTuber warning her listeners of the dangers of over-bleaching – how it could literally dissolve hair if left on too long – I decided to turn Pepper’s hair over to a professional).
Here is Pepper just before we left for the salon.
Now, if you have hair the color of Pepper’s, you’re going to have to bleach it before you add color.
(Thank you, Pepper, for taking photos of the entire dying process).
When the foil was removed, Pepper looked like this:
Then it was time for more foil – this time with blue dye instead of bleach.
(Pepper spent a lot of time waiting).
And, finally (two hours later), blue hair!
All right – not entirely blue. Just the bangs, but I told Pepper she was going to have to ease me into this whole colored hair “thing” slowly.
Was Pepper pleased? Absolutely. She loves the look and is having a lot of fun coordinating her hair and her clothes. In her mind, it was worth every penny.
Especially since I was the one who paid for it.
From the dining room table, getting ready to crack open a Nancy Drew mystery. (For some reason, the urge to read them always strikes me in summer),