Finding me again. One bit at a time.

Last week, I dyed my hair. Woo hoo, I hear you say with sarcastic undertones. And you would be right - it's hardly an effort worthy of the Nobel Prize for Chemistry. For me, it represents a giant leap.

You see, dyeing my hair used to be a regular event. There was a period in my twenties where I completely forgot what colour my hair was actually supposed to be. My hair has been bleached blonde, red, purple, bleached blonde again, then black (intentionally), quickly followed by green (unintentionally), then back to a sort of chestnut colour, and everything in between. 

My look has always been a little bit youthful, kind of Avril Lavigne dragged through a hedge. Not quite as full as Courtney Love, but not as gangly as Alanis. With different coloured hair. Since I had children, I've had to shift to a more, well, mumsy look. Gone are the contact lenses and the sharp haircuts to be replaced with glasses covered in finger smudges, and long pony-tails. Out went the army print tights and denim shorts, in came the jogging bottoms. I still 'do' combat pants, but now it's as much for the pocket space as for the anti-capitalist symbolism. I pogo around to Rage Against the Machine and Pearl Jam a lot less than I did when I was 18. I'm not sure the knees could cope any more. Please don't mention the pelvic floor.


So, after a moment of spontaneity in ASDA, I now have purple hair. Or shade 499 - Violet Berry Burst to be precise. On top of all that excitement, it also meant I found an hour in my schedule to do the  actual dyeing. I almost feel human again. I'd forgotten what dyeing your hair was like. I wasn't sure about the tingling sensation - was it supposed to do that? Was I going to wake up the next day looking like a flesh-coloured Moomin? As it happens, it all went well. The hair dye itself was pretty good. It's like a mousse you make by putting all the chemicals in to the shaker-shaped pot and shake it all together, then spread it round your hair. Leave it for 30 minutes, and then rinse out. Easy Peasy. And the colour does actually look like what it shows on the packaging. Win.

So, Avril, if you want to know what you'll look like at the age of 35 after having had four kids, then come over and weep, baby! You frickin wish. I'm rocking it this week. Now I need to find some more windows in my schedule to get rid of the flabby tummy. BIG windows.