from glum to plum

After a heavily emotional day yesterday, I decided that I needed a change. In my irrational state I headed for the hair dye aisle at Boots. Today I am sitting at my desk with the sun beaming through the window, illuminating my glowing aubergine head. The sun never shines in this bleak city and, naturally, today it insists on tormenting me with its mocking rays. Someone pass me a paper bag.
I feel the need to explain that at NO POINT was I prompted to dye my hair red. The box showed a subtle shade of auburn and I was confident that I would come out with shiny, natural looking hair.
My horror began when I messed dye on the bathroom carpet and began to fear the heartless reactions of my ‘flatties’. There is now eternal, pink evidence of my ordeal to caution future generations of flatmates. My first ‘post dye’ glance in the mirror was one of disbelief as I focused instantly on my roots which were brilliant red. My heart sank. My day got worse. My failed attempt at a pick-me-up sent me straight to my bed where I planned to hide under the covers, far from the world. I would call in sick. Yes, that’s what I would do.
A reassurance from Ian that it wasn’t as bad or as noticeable as I thought and my wallowing simmered. Today, however, few colleagues have passed my desk sans comment. The general consensus is positive, which is a relief considering I opted for a permanent colour in my moody haste.
Apparently you’re supposed to do something called a ‘patch test’. I would say ‘next time’, but after this…there wont be.