Breaking News: I'm Not Blonde


My travel schedule is out of control and I can’t get an appointment to see my hair stylist until early May. This sucks because my blonde hair is very brassy. I can’t cut the orange hue out of my hair, no matter how much Aveda Blue Malva shampoo I use.

I’m also sad to report that my brownish-gray roots look stupid and pronounced.

I was in the same predicament when I worked for Pfizer. My long blonde hair was brassy, my roots were prevalent, and I was in the middle of traveling to several different Pfizer sites to talk about a revised bonus structure. I lived in Michigan at the time but had a stylist in New York City. I was on my way to Connecticut and had a night at home in Kalamazoo.

I told my husband, “I’m running to Walgreens to get a box of hair dye. I need to color these roots.”

Ken said, “Laur, you look fine.”

That’s what he always says, though. It’s his default reaction to everything. I could wear a CHOOSE LIFE t-shirt from 1982 and a pair of acid washed jeans and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash.

So I ran to Walgreens and grabbed a box of brown hair dye. Why brown? Why not. I hadn’t colored my own hair in 10 years — something I vowed to stop doing when I got a real job with a real paycheck — but I had plenty of experience from high school and college.

I thought, “What could go wrong?”

Well, I turned my hair green.

Not just any shade of green, mind you, but an ashy shade of green. It was almost gray.

I had an instant panic attack. In the midst of my meltdown, I decided that I should go back to Walgreens and get a second box of brown dye and try to go darker. That’s right. Because all I needed to do was cover that shit up. Unfortunately, I only made my hair a darker shade of green.

In retrospect, I would call it liver-green.

I had another problem. I had a presentation to deliver in Connecticut. My flight was scheduled to depart at 6:00, the presentation was at 10:00 AM, and I didn’t own a hat. Even if I owned a hat, I wouldn’t wear it. So I did what any thoughtful HR professional would do and I called in sick.

That’s right. I lied. “Cough cough. I have the flu.” Or something stupid.

Then I hauled my ass from Kalamazoo to Chicago and spent $425 at the Mario Tricoci on Michigan Avenue to have my hair dyed a deep, deep shade of brown. Then I worked for 12 months to get it back to a decent shade of blonde.

So if you see me over the next few weeks, please indulge my silly roots. I look better as a washed-out-blonde with dark roots than I do as a woman with green hair.

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