I Look Like My Dog

Growing up, I was a blonde. As a baby, I was platinum, shading towards strawberry. As a kid, it turned sandy, then dirty blonde. I don't think it became what would have to be called brown (mousy, unfortunately), until I was in my mid-20s. I know there were people who still referred to me as having dark blonde hair until I was close to 30.

You never really do lose your portrait-of-the-self-as-a-young-woman image, do you? In my mind's eye, I think I will always have dirty blonde hair, be skinny as a rail, and look so much younger than my age that I need to automatically pull out my license any time I want to buy so much as a beer at a supermarket.

None of these things are true any longer.

So about a year ago, despite my general natural-girl, I-don't-wear-makeup-so-why-would-I-dye-my-hair attitude, I decided to try to make my outside look like the person I pictured on the inside. Skinny wasn't happening; nor was looking young again. But my hair? I could do that.

Problem is, the rest of me had changed along with my hair color and, frankly, blonde didn't really suit me. It washed me out. It looked brassy. And, to add insult to injury, I had to redo the color every month or so if I didn't want to look like a washed out, brassy blonde with mousy brown roots. (Sex-AY!)

Which is why, this weekend, I decided the hell with it. I found a lovely looking auburn-y, warm brown color and sat with it stinking on my head for ten minutes or so before rinsing it out. It wasn't until it had dried fully that my fears were confirmed: I had dyed my hair to match my dog. When I lay my head on Snug's back, near his hindquarters (where he's much more chocolate lab than black lab, though there's undoubtedly not only chocolate AND black lab but also some other breeds in him, as evidenced by a blaze of white on his chest) you can't tell where I end and he begins. Em thought it was just about the funniest thing in the world, apparently, as evidenced by the fact that her best friend's mom--our vet--greeted me at school for pickup today with a grin and a, "Yeah, I'd heard you'd dyed your hair to match your dog!"

Vanity strikes again.

[Baroy took a picture yesterday of me and Snug cuddling together so I could show people what I mean, but I simply can't post it here. For one thing, the sun was hitting my hair, but not Snug's face, so the colors don't look as if they match at all. For another, there is no way in hell I'm putting up a photo of me with one of my widest, gummiest smiles and bags under my eyes that any airline worth its salt would insist I check before boading. Another time...]