I suppose I COULD wear a hat...

There are both advantages and disadvantages to growing up under a mane of red hair.  The disadvantages are well known: the nicknames, the sinister connotations (Judas has a lot to answer for!). The advantages? Well, these include: never, ever being mislaid in a crowd - especially if taller than average, always being remembered (a distinct advantage in some circumstances, a sort of disadvantage in others, particularly those involving unwanted attention in disco situations), never having to resort to expensive salon colouring operations and never having to suffer the pains of going grey.

We redheads fade over time, dear reader, not to grey, but to a beautiful white.  We never have to resort to tweezering out unwanted strands, we never have to cope with the salt and pepper years. We fade, gracefully, through shades of light stawberry blonde, to golden lit with tiny strands of pure white, until we reach the nirvana that is our dotage: The white years.

This is what we are led to believe and it happens to a certain extent, except that no-one tells you that one day you reach the secret stage. The one that's never spoken about.  The one that makes you double take at your reflection and shout 'Oh, MY GOD! I'm a 60 a day nicotine hag!' This is the stage where your hair is yellow.  It's not a good look, having sallow hair round your face. Even with brown eyes, it's not a good look, so consider how hard it must be if you are a pale, interesting redhead with green or (god forbid!) blue eyes.

I reached that stage.  Now, being a redhead, myself and the dye bottle were strangers.  There was a very brief peroxide flirtation during a shorn phase when I thought having the front blonde would look cutting edge. I was young.  Forgive me.  Other than that, nada.  I made an foray into unknown aisles and purchased a box of Light Honey Blonde.  My reasoning? Tonal values. Tone down the yellow with warmer tones and Bingo!, I could coast through to the dotage stage. Bleh!  It merely served to up the nicotine haggage level to 80 a day.  Or possibly 90 in bright lights.  I was determined that I wouldn't become a dyed redhead.  We true ones are a bit sniffy about that sort of thing and anyway, there's nothing on the market that looks natural unless you can afford a Daniel Glavin salon visit every few weeks. Which I can't.

Then, in a positively epic moment, when angels and celestial choirs sang out in the aisles of Superdrug, there it was.  Light golden copper. Wash-in, wash-out. I got some, I washed in, I was ecstatic.  The yellow was gone and in it's place was the me of 15 years ago. Nothing too obvious, mind, just reddish-goldier than yellow and looking quite good when combined with a bit of make-up and a decent blowdry.   The one disadvantage? It washed in, it washed out. I resigned myself to frequent applications and to financing a colour habit only slightly less expensive than one involving hard drugs.

Discussing this dilemma with my sister, whose natural hair colour is a mystery even to her and has been since she was old enough to spend her first proper pocket money on peroxide, she told me her secret to 'making colour last'.  Bear in mind, neither of us are cash-rich, so we're quite creative in the 'making things last' department.  'Ah,' she said 'What you want to do is, stick the wash-in, wash out on dry hair, wrap it up in a plastic bag and a towel, then go about your daily business (indoors, obviously, lest you frighten the public at large) until rather longer has passed than you think adequate.  Then, wash it off with proper shampoo.  It'll sink in more and last better'. 

I digested this gem.  I carried on washing in, washing out.  Today, I thought I'd try the parsimonious approach to hair colouring, being as my hair needed a wash and all. I donned the rubber gloves, squirted out the goo and applied it.  Adding a Morrison's carrier bag and a warm towel and, being of a slightly more cautious nature than Sissy, set the timer for a mere 20 minutes.

Despite washing my hair three times, post-application,  I could be placed as a warning beacon in any given danger spot, so bright are my locks.  I am praising myself for the timing restraint, but kicking my not inconsiderable butt for stupidity of the highest order.  Vanity is a terrible thing and what WAS I thinking?  I may never be able to go outside again...