#and YES Rose wants to help the doctor box dye his hair

[whatsfourteenupto]

Just came back from two full days offshore and all I could think the entire trip was that we were handed a canonical mildly-bad-influence Wine Aunt™️ in Mel and we are all collectively sleeping on it

[comicreliefmorlock]

Orthopedic Surgeons Like Pink Hair, Apparently

I have always wanted to be a redhead. 

My admiration of fiery locks stretches back to my earliest memories and my absolute adoration of Jessica Rabbit. (Which I mean everyone had that period of adoring Jessica, but...) And cursed with chestnut hair that had, in my mother’s words, “gold and red highlights” did not assuage this desire for flaming red hair in the slightest. 

Naturally, one would assume I began dyeing my hair the moment I realized such a thing was possible, but I wasn’t actually lured into the magic of hair dye until late high school. My sister-in-law--who remains the girliest person I’ve ever met--dyed her hair regularly, heard my profound desire to become a redhead and dutifully set about to fulfill said longing. 

My hair was red and I was astoundingly happy.

Thus began my dedication to the magic of some incredibly stinky chemicals making my scalp itch, my shower looking as if Lars Thorwald was my roommate and an increasing number of shirts with red/dark brown/pink stains on them. 

Now having naturally dark hair meant I was unable to achieve truly red hair. I’m talking flaming. I wanted there to be absolutely no doubt that my hair was RED. For a considerable time, however, I was a coward. I feared what might come if I were to attempt bleaching my hair to get that real red I was eternally chasing. 

Until 2011.

Working in an operating room meant two things specifically: a stringent dress code (mainly for the sake of safety--i.e. no fake nails) and a lot of flexibility in said dress code simply because focus was on patient care and not on making sure everyone followed the hospital code to the letter. 

[One example? I kept my nails black for a month, got acrylics (painted black) and policy changed so personnel who didn’t interact with patients were allowed to have acrylics. HAH. Make me follow rules? I’ll show you what’s what.]

I wasn’t intending on flouting the dress code when I bought a DIY bleach kit and a couple boxes of BRIGHT red hair dye. It was simple math--I’d dyed my hair black a few months back, wanted to go back to red and the only way to effectively do that was to strip off the black and give my red dye a fresh bleached blonde base to settle into. 

Now, you should probably have someone help when you bleach your hair for the first time ever. Preferably someone with actual experience dyeing hair (their own or someone else’s). My second ex had no experience whatsoever, but I blithely submitted my head to him as he slathered on the bleach. 

I hadn’t taken a couple of things into account. One, the bleached areas we started with were going to be saturated for muuuuuuch longer than the rest. Two, I hadn’t chosen a dark red dye. I’d gone for a bright, lovely RED-red, because every time I’d dyed my hair before, I’d always gone up a shade or two in order to get a brighter shade on my naturally dark hair. 

When the bleach was washed out, I was a punk dandelion. 

My hair went from bright yellowish-white at the crown to an amazing orange at the tips. I looked like a Q-tip on fire.

Needless to say, this was not what I’d anticipated happening post-bleach. However, I still had me two boxes of red dye (I always bought two because long, thick hair = needs lots of dye) and I could fix this. The red might be a little brighter than usual, but it’d cover up all the strange tonal areas and be a pleasant red. 

The result?

Pink.

Not just “pink” but neon rose straight through to pale pastel. There was no ‘red,’ that was not a shade that happened. Somehow, through the magic of inexpertly applied chemistry, I ended up with absolutely wild pink hair. 

Having committed this error of judgement, I had two realizations: it was Sunday night and I had less than 24 hours before I had to show up at work. In the conservative hospital. With the stringent dress code. 

Two possibilities presented themselves: run to the nearest store, grab dark red dye and hope for the best or cover up as much hair as possible with a scrub cap and wait out a few days to avoid burning my hair any worse than it’d already suffered. 

I slathered on conditioner like it was going out of style, used every bit of coconut oil I could and made sure I had the hand-sewn cutsey scrub caps available that one of the OR nurses had lovingly given me. 

Once I arrived at work and was faced with the woman who I have eternally proclaimed “Best Supervisor Ever,” I was struck with a guilty conscience. There was no way I couldn’t tell her about the mishap and let her know I was going to remedy this as soon as it was safely possible. 

So with only her in the office, I tugged off my scrub cap, unfastened the clip and revealed the elbow-length rush of sheer pink that my hair had become. Her response was to laugh so hard she nearly cried, all the while trying to gasp that it actually didn’t “look bad.”

As I’m sharing a laugh with her--because if I couldn’t laugh at myself, I’d be absolutely insufferable--the office door opens and one of the orthopedic surgeons walks in. He was one of the nicer doctors in the OR, always pleasant and treated the support staff with respect. 

And all he managed to say was “...it’s so pink!” 

He’d never seen so much pink hair before. He was fascinated. As I’m standing there between the printer and the desk, awkwardly trying not to laugh, he circled me, staring at the flood of pink that was floofing out over my shoulders. And then he nearly killed me by giving me the most Earnest Look and asking “...can I touch it?”

I, of course, said yes and his surgeon-skilled hands were immediately buried in my hair. He floofed it, fluffed it, held it up, turned it over and rubbed it between his fingers, all the while whispering “It’s so pink! ...and soft! ...and pink!”

This went on for a full five minutes. 

With my supervisor’s assurance that I wasn’t going to be fired for a “hair mishap,” I settled back in to work and my only concession to the whole thing was to make sure I wore a full-coverage scrub cap every day for the week or so that I gave my hair to recover. 

Except for what became the evening routine. 

Between five and six in the evening, the surgeon would come into view, peering towards the office from around the corner. He’d always check to make sure I was alone before creeping up to the window--open to let people hand in paperwork without breaking stride--and whisper “Can I?”

I nodded. And he’d dash around to the door, pop into the office and wait with eager anticipation until I’d gotten my scrub cap and hair clip off. 

And then he just went to town. This MD with decades of experience and specialized training, nearly in his early sixties, would stand behind me and act like my hair was a brand-new toy JUST like one he’d always wanted as a kid and now he could damn well have it. 

Floofing, flipping, petting, braiding, unbraiding, petting, smoothing, stroking my hair with an expression of absolutely childlike glee while whispering “...it’s so pink! ...and soft! ...and pink!”

The day I came to work with my hair redyed a more subdued, appropriate red, I saw what true disappointment looked like. He never asked to play with my hair again, but every so often, he’d bring paperwork to the office and say “It was just so pink.”

[missmal1005-blog]

One of my creative writing assignment stories

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing that we can do. What we can tell you, is that this is not your fault. Nothing that you did made this happen, and there’s no way to prevent it.  There are grief counselors available to speak with….”

 The doctor’s voices faded out.  Amy kept nodding, showing a small smile, but she wanted them to leave the room. To just get out and let her have a moment to process. After what seemed like an uncomfortable silence that lasted forever, the doctors hastily left.

 The nurse took her clothes and placed them on the edge of the bed.  “Do you need to call anyone?” Amy took a long pause before responding. “No, my mother is in the waiting room”.  The nurse, who name tag said “Jessica” with little butterfly stickers attached, stared at her, trying to gage her emotional process. “Amy, take as long as you need to get ready, and I’m sorry for your loss.”

All Amy could muster up is a half-hearted “Thanks.” She didn’t need the apologizes or the lengthy “It’s not your fault” speeches. She knew it wasn’t anything she could’ve done. Sometimes, pregnancies end. It’s just a simple fact of life. But it doesn’t take away from all the pain. This was going to be her first child. The first child for her and Charles. She didn’t even have the chance to tell him she was in the hospital. He never answers his phone while at work. He claims that he is always too busy to talk. But it’s hard to talk while his mouth was covered with his assistant’s body parts.  

Charles has been sleeping with Desiree since the 20 something year old walked in for a job, and her breasts made an entrance before she did. Most people would have left, but there wasn’t really much to leave with. Charles made sure make sure Amy was taken care of. Weekly manis/pedis, the best personal trainers, a personal chef, maid, and private car to take her anywhere she wanted.  She was newly twenty-one and met Charles at the club where she was celebrating her birthday. He was handsome, older, and more sophisticated then the frat boys that her roommates were sleeping with.  She was a junior in a college and was barely passing classes due to having to work to pay for school. It seemed like an easy fix to marry and not have scrub toilets to pay a tuition bill for a school she hated. At first, she loved living the life she used to watch the famous reality TVs stars have. She herself could have starred in the one of the Real Housewives shows.  

She didn’t notice that since the wedding, Charles was never home. Sure, he would wine and dine her at fancy galas, and take fancy vacations to tropical islands with water so clear she could see her feet when she walked. But his phone was always to his ear, or he had a laptop to glued to his hands. She usually went to bed alone and woke up to him already gone, possibly on a plane or just to his upscale NY office. She only been once in the ten years they were married. It was around their eighth anniversary. He said the office tied him up and he couldn’t make dinner, but would be able to fly her out to any destination that weekend. Amy, being the romantic that she was, wanted to bring the romance back. She made a beautiful lunch, and called his office, and confirmed that he had no appointments for at least an hour block. She would have surprise him with lunch, and a trench coat where she was wearing nothing underneath. She was so excited coming up the elevator. His wooden office door was unlocked, but you could hear the moans before the door was even opened. He begged her to stay that night and promised to fire Desiree the very next day. Yet, two years later, it was odd that his new assistant, “David”, was sending him pictures of his breasts to Charles’s private “work” Blackberry.

When she found out she was pregnant, she was so excited. It was stupid but Charles was so supportive. He got the best doctors in the country. Came to almost every appointment. They even did the early testing to check for genetic abnormalities and to find out the gender. And now, he didn’t even know that his little “baseball buddy” (as he was sure they were having a boy) is no longer existent.

 Amy walked out to the waiting room, where her mom was waiting. Alice smiled at her, until she noticed the tears streaking down her daughter’s face. She quickly ushered her out and helped her into the car.

            “Amy, dear, you’re barely thirty-one. You can try again, you know. If there are issues, Charles can afford the best fertility specialists in the country. Maybe you’ll get twins that way. Your cousin Charlotte, had IVF, and she got triplets. Triplets! Well, it’s not like you can’t afford them, I’m sure Charles will get the fanciest sitters available. Don’t you give up hope yet. Did the doctor say when you could try again? I am assuming that you can as soon as possible…”

 Amy mostly tuned out Alice at this point. Her mother, one of six children, was elated when her daughter “married up”, as she called it. Alice made a point to only have one child to save money, and even then, she wasn’t satisfied with life of living. Amy’s father tried to please her, but Alice only saw dollar signs. Amy believes he worked himself to death trying to compete with Alice’s standards. The only time Alice seemed truly happy with her marriage was when she received the funds from her husband’s life insurance and savings, after his sudden death from a heart attack last year.

 They finally pulled up to the house. The maids had already left for the day, and the chef wasn’t due until later that evening. Alice offered to stay, but Amy wanted to be left alone. She tried calling Charles again, but after it rang for the fifth time she hung up.

 The house, which hosted 7 bedrooms, 5 bathrooms, a pool, guesthouse, and tennis court, seemed too big for just two people. It was filled with high end furniture and the latest tech, but it was empty of people.  Amy couldn’t remember the last party or event that was hosted her. Yet it was cleaned top to bottom each day, as if it was just waiting for people to come and admire it.

Amy tried calling Charles again. This time it picked up on the second ring.

 “Hello, my dear, how’s the little one? I know you are expecting me to be home, but Marvin is trying to have dinner with the staff, and you know I’m up for a promotion…”

           It’s super interesting that Marvin’s wife just invited them out for dinner last week and mentioned that they were in Greece for the next two weeks, but Amy didn’t even bother to tell him that. She could hear Desiree’s laughter from the phone.

 “It’s okay Charles. Have a good time. Tell Desiree I said hello.” She hung up before he could respond. She turned the phone off and took the battery out. The last thing she wanted to do was argue, especially after today.

            She went to the bathroom, crying. She looked in the mirror. Her hair, a perfect light blonde, rested all the way down her backside. Most of the wives her age already had Botox and new breasts, but she had the blessing of her mother genetics. She was still mistaken to be in college and was constant carded. At many events she was asked if she was a model, and most were shocked that with her blue eyes that looked like marbles and her perfectly tanned skin, that she wasn’t.

           After staring long in the mirror, Amy knew she had to do something. The change in her body warranted a change in her appearance. She was tired of looking like the perfect trophy wife. She was tired of being the perfect trophy wife. She wanted a change.  

Amy ran into the kitchen and grabbed some shears. She went to the bathroom and started cutting. Her smile grew wider with each chunk of hair that fell to the floor.  Once her hair reached the length of her ears, she went into the bedroom, and her own private bathroom. She rummaged in the closet until she found it-a box of leftover red/orange hair dye, from a few Halloweens ago. She wanted to go for Black Widow but brought a wig to dye instead of her own hair. Charles was supposed to be Hulk, but he supposedly had to work late.  Once he saw her in that red wig, he was so devasted that she changed her blonde tresses that he slept in the other room. He brought her plane tickets to Paris once he saw her without the wig that next morning as an apology.

 It only took 40 minutes to dye her hair and dry it. She took out her contacts, and picked out her glasses, and put them on. Charles hated her glasses. He said it gave her the appearance of being smart to the point where it was condescending. She kept her glasses in her purse since then, only using them when he wasn’t around, as the contacts irritated more than they helped.

 She smiled in the mirror at her new look. She didn’t look like a trophy wife. She looked like Amy, a person, of her own accord. It brought her back to who she was before she married. The girl who like comics and music, and not balls and tea parties and the country club. She went into her closet, and took out some jeans, and a bright band shirt that was hidden within. A CD dropped, from the band Guns N’ Roses. She hadn’t listened to them in forever. Charles didn’t like that type of music. He told her, “Next thing you’ll do is go get a tattoo or something crazy.” He asked her to put away the band shirts, and the jeans too. The fact that she could fit into the clothes of her youth surprised Amy and made her happy.

 She laughed bitterly at the memory, then smiled mischievously.  She knew what she had to do.

She walked out the front door, where Tom, her driver was sitting in front of the car, having a smoke break. When he saw her, he quickly put it out. “I’m so sorry Mrs. Kelly”.  

 She smiled. “Please Tom, call me Amy.”

 “Yes, of course Mrs.-um, Amy.” He didn’t hide his worried and concerned glances as he opened the door, and let Amy in. He walked around and got into the driver’s seat. “Where to, ma’am?”

 “133 West Market Street in Manchester. And it’s Amy, remember?”

Tom hesitated. “Ma’am, I mean Amy, you do know that area is…. that part of town…. well, you know that’s a tattoo shop, right?”

 “I do Tom. And please hurry, I need to get in before they close today.”

 “Right away”.

 And they drove off, Amy smiling all the way.