My friend Daphne, The Perky Pessimist, is the kind of friend who keeps you young in the best, non-night-in-jail kind of ways. A week ago, Daphne dyed some of her hair pink and posted the pics on Facebook.
I loved it and told her so. A few days later, I somehow ended up with pink hair of my own through a blurred process that involved lots of laughter, margaritas, and some very strange smells.
We started out by dying just the tips of my hair pink so I could cut them off if it was too much. The opposite was true. I loved my pink ends and wanted more pink. So Daphne obliged. We used a different brand of dye mistakenly labeled something innocuous like Sweet Ruby. Unfortunately, on me it looked like Bozo’s Wig.
This time it was too much and I had Kory cut off a few inches of pink. But I still have a lot in my hair even though it doesn’t show up on camera too well. We discovered that the “food” setting on the camera works best for picking up paranormal hair. Just a hint for all you color junkies out there.
I still forget about my pink hair and wake up every morning startled by what I see on the pillowcase or in the mirror. This is a nice break from waking up every morning startled by the number on the scale.
When asked “Why pink?” I usually say, “I had to cover up the gray somehow.” But the truth is, it was time for something fun, and . . . I thought maybe the color would help me get out of jury duty.
Yep, that’s right. I got the dreaded notice in the mail last month. I arranged for my mom to watch my kids in the morning and a friend to watch them in the afternoon so I could go have a fun day at court. I ended up in the jury box—much to my horror. Even worse, it was a criminal trial. Incidentally, you know that questionnaire they make you fill out? There’s no box to check for “Is your hair an unnatural shade and does that reflect your outlook on life?”
For awhile it looked like I was going to have to resort to favors, bribes, and complicated scheduling charts to arrange for child care for the rest of the week. But, where my pink hair failed to get me off the jury, my conservative views on prior felonies did the trick. The defense sent me packing, and—forgive the cliché—I was one happy camper.
Don’t get me wrong. I support and believe in our justice system, but, HELLO? Summertime! The kids are more than just home. They are black holes of summer boredom, restless energy, and brother-bating power. They managed to put my mom back on oxygen after she spent only a few hours with them. I’m not kidding. My boys are forces of nature not to be taken lightly or even approached without proper protective gear.
So, I’m now off the hook in more ways than one. I’m relieved of jury duty and a pretty hip mama if I do say so myself.
