gray coverage

When I was 20, I briefly and haphazardly dated a guy named Steve.  It was the summer before I moved to Amherst, and I wanted to dye my hair red.  Blonde was old news.  I mentioned this in passing to Steve, not realizing that this was a choice that would affect him so.  He didn't like the idea at all; he had some kind of spiritual aversion to hair dye.  He asked me not to go through with it.  He went on a tirade against unnatural hair colors.  I shrugged it off, and did it anyway; a nice, normal shade of auburn.  It looked good.  I liked it.  Other people liked it.  Except for Steve.
A few days after this "mistake", he picked me up and we drove to the Clark Art Institute.  Even in the heat, he was wearing a wool beanie pulled over his ears.  We were sitting at a stoplight when he suddenly turned to me with a strange look, half-smile, half-scowl.  He whipped off his hat.  His hair was the color of lime Jello.  We stared at each other in silence for a moment, him waiting expectantly for me to scream, yell, demand to turn this car around, refuse to be seen with him.
I laughed and laughed.  I hooted.  Because, come on, this is a prematurely balding pasty Irish guy who has dyed his hair green out of vengeance.  It was clear this was not his intended reaction.  He looked confused.  "I had to bleach it first and then do the green!"  Even better!  A real passive-aggressive effort.  As I cackled he mumbled something like "Well, you gave me no choice," and jammed the hat back on, where it stayed for the entirety of our visit to the Clark.  We spoke no more of it.
After the museum, we stopped for lunch at a sandwich place.  By now the heat was too much for Steve to bear, so the beanie was off.  He picked an inconspicuous booth towards the back of the shop for us to sit in.  I wasn't particularly enjoying myself, which is common when you spend the day with a complete dick, but things improved drastically when the five-year-old girl in the booth behind him began pointing at his head.
"Look, Mommy!  Look at his HAIR."
Steve took a bite of sandwich and tried valiantly to ignore this.  I tried and failed not to smirk.
"His hair is like OSCAR the GROUCH."
This was an astute observation, given his mood by now.  The little girl seemed delighted that someone would choose to make their hair the color of a Sesame Street character.  I was pretty delighted myself.  He glared at me, shoved the rest of his sandwich in his mouth, and we left.  I asked him to drop me home and he did.  The next time I saw him he had shaved his head bald.

Today my hair is hot pink.  Back then when I was young and foolish enough to spend time with someone I didn't even particularly care for, I didn't foresee myself doing anything so drastic to my own head.  Now I am older, and foolish enough to just leave it be when the intended auburn comes out magenta.  (Also, grateful to have a grown-up job that is similarly nonchalant.)  I wasn't sure about it at first, but it's a nice change for the moment.  As I was walking to work yesterday, a woman passed me and said, "Oh, I love your hair.  God bless you."

still here

September 23 Resolution: write more.