tragedy strikes in a plastic bottle
This is from the Seattle Days, when I was being a red head and doing the commute thing between Seattle and L.A. [Um, yeah, that went well. You can tell because, well, I am back in L.A. Being a red head sort of rocked though I think about doing that again from time to time.]
TRAGEDY STRIKES IN A PLASTIC BOTTLE
I am gearing up for a trip to parts L.A. to meet spiffy people who will maybe make this movie happen. Yay! And, before I go, a friend taking photography classes needs a model to shoot some film with, so tomorrow I am it while she practices shooting through different sized apertures. And if any of the photos turn out, I get new pictures. Double yay!
All of this makes me think it is time to pretty up, seeing as I will be hobnobbing and photo shooting in the next few days. Which is a snap, I have pretty in cute bottles and jars I spend outrageous sums of cash on for the sole purpose of prettying up. [I am on task, when it comes to prettying up.] So I whip a few out, mix their contents, slather goo on my hair, wait twenty minutes, and start to rinse.
[For the uninitiated, this means I am dying my hair.]
And everything is fine until, rinsing, I notice patches of stain on my hands.
This is wrong. The dye I use is light, it comes right off skin. It doesn’t stain anything. [Well, except for walls and socks and that is another story.] But this isn’t coming off. This is definitely stained skin. (Uh oh, there goes the manicure.) And I think, Um, that is not my dye, my dye doesn’t do that, and look in the mirror and —
It is the wrong dye.
Don’t ask me how I got the wrong dye. Probably it was misfiled on a shelf at the shop and I picked it up along with bottles of my dye, aka the-right-dye, aka Clairol 204 RR. This bottle does not say Clairol 204 RR. It says Clairol 203 RR. It must have snuck in there. [Covert dye on beauty shop shelves, who knew?] And now it is not misfiled on a shelf. It is misfiled on me.
Great. I am going to Los Angeles with wrong hair.
Only it is not just wrong hair. See, I do my eyebrows too. To match my hair. So I am not just going to Los Angeles with wrong hair. I am not just shooting photographs tomorrow with wrong hair. I am going to Los Angeles and shooting photos with —
Really wrong eyebrows. This stuff is dark. I mean dark. 204 is this nice tawny red. This is not nice tawny red. This is pitch red. And on my eyebrows, pitch black red. And it has dyed the skin all around my eyebrows and the skin all around my hairline. So I look basically like an escaped extra from Planet of the Apes.
Not the look I was going for.
There are only two ways to take dye stains off skin. Well, three, actually. The first is, know you’re using a dark dye that stains skin and don’t get it on your skin in the first place. Which has sort of passed me by at this point. The second is to sand the skin off. Take the upper stained layers off and presto, no more stain. Of course, no more skin either. [Okay I do not want to be “Max-the-Skin-less-Girl.”] The third is, fingernail polish remover.
Fingernail polish remover is generally not recommended by dermatologists as a rejuvenating facial splash, but it works taking dye stains off skin. Sometimes. If you catch it soon enough. So I have spent the last half hour scrubbing my face with fingernail polish remover.
The stains are coming off. I sure smell funny though. Do not let those nail polish remover people fool you with those little lemon pictures on the bottles. Nothing on this planet will make fingernail polish remover smell “lemony fresh.”
But the stains are going away. Yay!
Now it is time to bleach my eyebrows and pray. Wish me luck. Light candles. Incense. Hell, burn a yule log. This is serious and might require a few yule log sacrifices. And hey? If you see a girl with funny looking eyebrows in L.A. next week? Be nice. It is not her fault.