Long ago, before we even met, my husband had peroxided his hair, and he looked good. He wanted to do it again, and we have been meaning to for ages, so I bought him peroxide and a nice share of blonde to put over that, and promised him I will do it this weekend for him.
Not one for patience, he was really keen to do it on Friday night. On a Friday, I am so tired, not only from a week of work but also from cooking, cleaning, and so on, so all I want to do is chill at home with a glass of vino. I had gone to the city for my colleague’s birthday drinks, and had stopped off in Balham for a burger and some more drinks with my husband, so I was already tired when we got home, wanting to put my feet up and watch the football.
I was so relaxed, that I fell asleep on the couch. At some point, my wonderful husband woke me, to get me to go downstairs to bed. I vaguely remember seeing tinfoil on his head, but I was so sleepy, I didn’t care. I now regret this.
Yesterday morning, my husband woke me (but I refused to open my eyes because 10am on a Saturday is WAY too early for me) and said, “I need you to help me.”
“Why? What now?” I enquired.
“Look at me, dudie,” he whinged.
My eyes immediately opened, picturing a huge wound and sitting in A&E for hours.
What I actually saw cannot be described adequately, but I will try. His hair was a light share of orange. To make matters worse, his sides were still their lovely brown colour. It looked… arty.
All of a sudden I had flashbacks of him walking around the house with tinfoil on his head, and finally realised what had occurred. I sighed, “Why did you have to do it last night without me?”
“Well, it’s not my fault you go to bed at 10pm on a Friday night,” he whinged. “I even went out and bought Vaseline for my head, so I don’t stain my face,” he explained proudly. “But I forgot to do the sides, and when I finally realised I hadn’t done them, I tried to scrape off what was left in my mixing bowl-”
I suddenly sat up in bed, thinking, I do not own a mixing bowl for hair dye.
“Wait, back up, what mixing bowl?” I enquired worriedly. I knew that late at night, he might be able to buy Vaseline, but NOT a mixing bowl, so logic dictates that he used one of my salad bowls.
“My mixing bowl, dudie,” he said, looking very confused.
“Where did you get said mixing bowl, Justin?”
“I don’t know, from where all our bowls are in the kitchen cupboard.”
I closed my eyes and repeated I love my husband three times, counted to ten and got out of bed, Justin trailing behind me, not one for missing the opportunity to whinge.
As I walked up the stairs, I was filled with horror – it looked like hairdressers had thrown a party up there. There were towels on every couch (not even draped, just dumped there), and our coffee table was cover in peroxide powder, scissors, foil, and his ‘Vaseline’, which turned out to be ‘Glosheen’s Corn Rows Scalp Treatment with Coconut’.
I almost had heart failure when I turned to the kitchen counter and found my salad bowl, containing peroxide, with my wooden spoon (the very spoon I use to cook Justin his dinner), also covered in peroxide.
“Oh my God, Justin, what the heck have you done?” I turned to him, ready for a fight.
As the day progressed, I found out that he applied the peroxide upstairs in the kitchen and NOT in the bathroom because ‘it made sense, dude’, and some peroxide was now on his shorts (he only has about three pairs of shorts anyways), which he said he will still wear out cos ‘it looks cool’ (he was clearly in the denial stage). I also found out that he had left a treatment out for me to apply on his hair – sadly, when I looked at the label, it was actually more peroxide.
After having three cups of coffee, I took the blonde shade I bought him and applied that. It made a little bit of a difference but he was still quite upset, so I was made to go to Superdrug to get some gentian violet. I couldn’t find it anywhere in our little local Superdrug, and I saw an assistant, so I approached her for help. The conversation went something like this:
“Hi, I was wondering if you could help me. My husband peroxided his hair and now I need a toner to take out the orange and make it blonde,” I said, matter-of-factly, not embarrassed at all, because I knew if she had a significant other, she would understand that men constantly do stupid shit.
“Uh, ok, lets see what we have,” she said and ushered me to the dye isle.
We debated for quite a while, and, as there was nothing suitable, I just got more peroxide. I came home and was given a talking to because ‘how could they not have gentian violet, I bet you just didn’t see it, you are sabotaging me, you are enjoying this’. We put some more peroxide but just for about five minutes, and, I must say, after washing it out, it looked much better, but it still had an orangeish tinge.
This morning, Justin woke up and declared that we will be dyeing his hair back to brown today. This whole experience has cost me about £20 that I could have used for us to go out when we are in Bulgaria, and I just pray his hair does not fall out.
At least it made everybody laugh, but I can’t help but think – if he can do so much damage to our apartment and his hair while I’m asleep downstairs, what will he do when I’m not there??