Orange you glad to see me?

Dear Internet, oh-most-wise Computer residents,

Why did I not ask you before attempting to colour my hair?

Why did I not seek guidance that any attempts conducted on impulse by an inexperienced operator (to put it politely rather than calling myself an utter idiot), armed solely with the deadly combination of Dutch Courage and three glasses of wine and limited to the entirely ignorance-based inappropriate use of a de-colourant, for streaky bit insertion thereof, was going to go horridly pear.

Internet, dear, sweet, Internet, I actually had no issue with my hair the way it was.

I liked my hair, really I did.

I just thought some streaky bits sounded all, you know, fun and a bit daring and trendy. Like the young folk do, Internet.

But I couldn’t be bothered with all that cap applying and strand pulling and I just massaged the lot in. Yes, all at once. I do not do many things by half measures. I then proceded to spend a merry twenty minutes chasing Saag and Naan around my bathroom before stopping to carefully uncover a strand (as the packet said to, Internet, I note with some indignation) only to find to my horror that the texture had gone to that scary place where the next step is unequivocally ‘dissove’. Even I could spot that one coming, Internet.

Oh, and I was orange.

Yes, I’m not beating about the bush with such niceties as ‘strawberry blonde’ or ‘redhead’ because I currently look like Ronald McDonald’s slightly unfortunate long-lost cousin. I could easily double as an extra for the Straw Man in the Wizard of Oz. Or the lion, for that matter.

I’m really, very, hat-wearing-ly, next-stop-is-a-shaved-head orange.

LS, bless his heart, got home from work, took one look at me (in the darkened-in-disgrace house, so I wouldn’t have to witness the effects of my ill-thought through experimentation with pigment stripper), exclaimed ‘You’re blonde!’, then quizzically repeated ‘You’re blonde?’.

Then he flipped on the light and just about widdled himself laughing at my predicament, Internet.

Between gasps for air he snorted ‘You’re ORANGE! Ha!’. Then he doth skip a merry jig of amusement around the room, Internet, despite the increasing risk to life and limb posed by such unfettered merriment at the woes of another.

When I pointed out that this was hardly a sympathetic way to console me, he took me lovingly by the shoulders and uttered thusly:

‘Don’t worry, plenty of people with a disability live full and active lives in the community these days. We WILL get through this, I promise.’

Then he laughed some more, the prick.

Now if you’ll excuse me, Clariol and I have a hot date to try and repair the damage. I do not hold out overmuch hope.

I LIKED my hair the way it was.

Help! Any suggestions?