Color me Irish

I used to think being frugal was a good thing. I could be nearly self-righteous about it, in fact. As if not buying the latest gadget or shopping at thrift stores made me a better person. Obviously that's just wrong thinking. Of course, my FICA score does make me better than most of you, but that's a different matter entirely. No, no, I shouldn't joke like that or the universe will teach me another lesson.

Last week, after I'd been back from Deb's for a couple of days, I colored my hair. This is not a new or strange activity for me. My Irish genes turned my hair prematurely gray long before I was 40, and I've been covering those pesky strands with auburn dye ever since my girlfriends forced me to see that nothing bad would happen if I did so. Until now.

I used the wimpiest form of color for a decade. The kind with no ammonia or peroxide or whatever makes it permanent, but that washes out after several shampoos. Then Clairol, for no good reason whatsoever, stopped making it. Just stopped. And while I was busy with issues like debt and death, enterprising and evil persons bought up the available inventory. Oh, I could still buy my beloved #80, but not for $50. a bottle on eBay. I'm quite mystified why anyone would pay that amount, but people did, and then there was none. I had to choose another option. Going natural was not one of them.

I spent a great deal of time in the beauty aisle, reading packages until I had to admit that no "safe" dye was available. They all had the dreaded chemicals that made the color last longer (apparently what the masses want), and I no longer had Gwennie to tell me I was being silly and reassure me it would look fine. I managed to pick one and do it anyway. Except for the awful smell, it went well. And everyone seemed to like the slightly darker auburn my hair became with this product. This new dye came out of the bottle in foam form, and cost a couple of dollars more ($8. a bottle), but I got used to it.

Last week, after I draped myself with an old towel and put the plastic gloves on, I mixed the nasty smelling formula and squeezed the bottle. Instead of a palm full of foam, I got liquid. I squeezed again, and again no foam. The directions say to keep squeezing until foam comes out. They don't cover what to do if foam never comes out. A less frugal person (or, you might suggest, a smarter person) would simply throw this malfunctioning product away and get another one. But my thought process was that the old stuff never foamed and it was fine, and I wasn't going to waste eight dollars, so what the heck. I poured the liquid on, covering all strands, making sure to get more near the roots. Then, even though the directions don't call for it, I put a plastic cap over my hair to really bake it in. It's what I always did with the old stuff -- the stuff without the harmful chemicals. I am thorough in my stupidity.

By the time the requisite 25 minutes were up, and I stepped into the shower to rinse and condition, I was dizzy. I was so dizzy I had to hold onto the shower door frame with one hand and rinse with the other. I made it out of the bathroom, managed to get dry and dressed, and laid down on the couch. When I closed my eyes, vertigo hit. For those lucky enough not to know the difference, dizzy is bad and vertigo is God's warning that Hell is real. The room spun as if I'd jumped onto a souped up carousel. Unfortunately, I know what this is like from previous experience, and I knew that keeping my eyes closed wouldn't help. Also, opening your eyes while the room is twirling is dangerous without an emesis basin handy.

I'm not sure how long it took for the vertigo to settle back down into dizziness, but once it did I carefully reached for my laptop and Googled "hair dye dizzy." I learned that the ammonia can, in fact, mess with one's head. I would have slapped myself, but I'm not a total masochist.

I talked to Deb, who is a font of knowledge, and she suggested ways for me to detox. The scariest one was to wash my hair again. I have always understood, intellectually, why old and/or frail people are afraid of bathing. Falling is a legitimate fear. Last week I got it on an emotional level. I couldn't get back into the shower. I got on my knees outside the tub and leaned over, using the hand-held shower to wash and rinse, scrubbing as if I could somehow lift the chemicals out of my scalp hours later.

I still didn't feel well the next day. A friend who visited took my mind off my head temporarily, but a general wonkiness had set in that isn't entirely gone, even now, a week later.

I will never be that frugal again. If something is off, I will buy another one. I've come to appreciate my overall good health even more, and to be thankful for a friend like Deb, who gave good advice and continued to email me and check on how I was doing. The friend who visited, who knew I felt so bad that I couldn't even go to the post office to mail a card to my aunt? Never called, never emailed to ask if I felt better, until yesterday. So, see, there's always good with the bad. I learned how little that person really thinks of me. It hurts, but it's useful to know.

I appear to be happy, or happier, to some of my friends. What I am is more thankful for my blessings and more willing to learn lessons. I'd still rather learn them without pain, though. So not so evolved, after all. :-)