I’m fairly certain I’m the only person in the world who dyes her hair fire engine red and, while waiting for it to set, Googles “red hair dye AND cancer risk.” This is how I’ve always been — like, 25% hardcore, maybe 40 on a reckless day. Just hardcore enough to be friends with people who do cocaine (for example), but not hardcore enough to, say, I dunno, ride a bicycle without strapping on a melon head helmet and neon yellow visibility Safe-T vest. Hardcore enough to make out with strangers (only very rarely, of course), but not hardcore enough to do so without being convinced for the next ten weeks that I caught herpes and sending my RN friend emails with subject lines like “COLD SORES VS CANKER SORES VS HERPES?!??!!? (warning: graphic photographic attachments!!!).”
Anyway, I’m sitting here with itchy scalp waiting to see what sort of woman I’ve transformed into — either a hideously ugly Medusa or a siren capable of luring perfectly sensible men out to sea (though, being honest with ourselves here, hair dye does nothing for your face) or, more realistically, the same woman of middle-range attractiveness with red hair instead of mop bucket blond.
I had red hair all through college. It made me feel badass, a quality I’d been completely lacking my whole life. It was a good way to separate myself from the nerdy ogre I was in high school (all for $16.99!). I’ve been my natural color for a couple years now, but decided to backslide for four reasons:
– a recent breakup.
– Halloween costume (secret).
– distract from pimples.
– reclaim youth.
I’ll let you know how it works out.
Earlier today, my dad asked me if I wanted to go to my step-cousin’s wedding in November. He assured me there would be all sorts of eligible bachelors there, some of whom would not be as boring and conservative as Step-cousin. “Every group has a wacky opposite one,” dad said sagely. “Maybe this unexpected wildcard will be there and ask for your number or your Facebook or something.”
“You never know,” he said, unconvincingly.
Having your dad try to set you up with someone is demoralizing and a definite indicator that you are reaching the autumn of your fertile years. Unlike mothers, who have been trying to set us up with anything that moves since we were 16, our fathers are generally removed from our romantic lives, stepping in only in the case of a Code Red. I guess this is a Code Red.