My red hair

So there was this time back in eighth grade, when all my friends were going through their "rebellious" phases (which for us meant signing into the then-exhilarating AIM and impersonating people in their mid-20s; I remember I used to pretend to be 24 because I thought it was such a worldly age, how tragic)

Anyway, everyone decided to dye their hair various exotic colors, like red or blue or green or stripes.  I wanted to dye my hair purple, because this color reminded me of Pocahontas.  Or something equally bizarre.  I had no doubt that with purple hair I too could run carefree through the pre-colonial North American wilderness, cavorting with bears, raccoons, and bloodthirstily handsome English gold-diggers.

One day, shopping at the mall, I found a store that sold Manic Panic hair dye.  (Remember Manic Panic?  No?)  The dye was a deep purple that completely deserved the descriptor "royal."  I bought the jar and took it home.

How eagerly I waited until my parents left me alone at home!  Finally, one day, opportunity struck.  I was home alone with my sister, who was watching TV downstairs.  It was time to become Pocahontas.

Here's what I imagined would happen: I'd cover my hair in purple dye, wash it out, and end up with an elegant and mysterious violet tinge that made me look cute, albeit a bit alien and maybe a little sallow under flourescent light.

Here's what actually happened:  I applied the purple dye liberally and let it set.  While I was happily doing this, though, tiny drops of purple color sprayed the shower curtain, the sink, the mirror and the walls.  When I finally washed the dye out, a strange purplish ring remained in the bathtub.  Most importantly, my hands - which I hadn't covered - were brilliant purple all the way to the elbow.

It looked like I had murdered Barney the dinosaur with my bare hands.

I'd been planning to debut my new look at a party that night.  And boy, did I ever have a new look.  I spent the next three hours running around the house scrubbing my hands with everything from toothpaste to rubbing alcohol in hopes of somehow deactivating the Manic Panic dye.  The best part was, my hair was - wait for it! - still black.

After that you'd think I'd have learned my lesson, and I did, for a couple of years.  Until a few nights ago.  I wandered into my local pharmacy and noticed that the guy had a new product sitting on his desk.  It was henna powder.  Henna powder, mixed with water, makes for a potent red dye that Indian women have been using for generations.

Oh no.

I know what you're thinking - don't buy the dye.  But I figured I was older and smarter (far past the age of 24, which had once seemed so remote and so wise) and I figured I could handle myself with some hair dye.

So I bought the dye.

Here's what I imagined would happen: I'd cover my hair in henna, wash it out, and end up with an elegant and mysterious russet tinge that made me look cute, albeit a bit Bollywood and maybe a little roseate under yellow light.

Here's what actually happened: I ended up with yellow hands.

I know what you're thinking: buy gloves already!  I will, next time. Not that there will ever be a next time.

Yeah right.  We all know there'll be a next time.  This iswhy I shouldn't be left alone: stuff like this happens.