Every time I get my hair dyed, it storms. This is a meteorological certainty. In fact. I am sure that all that would be necessary to turn the Simpson Desert into the Simpson Inland Ocean would be the timely construction of a salon and an appointment for myself therein.
So here I am, sitting in the chair. The amazing Sheree is standing behind me, holding up strands of my streaky hair, one part natural regrowth to two parts orangey-blonde. We're talking balayage, as I want something low maintenance for summer (do you know how fast the summer sun strips red hair? Coupled with the saltwater of the ocean? In a red hot minute, that's how fast) but I feel misgivings because... well... it feels like there's a congaline of blonde-brushed girls from California to Coogee and I didn't want to just blend in, another Erin Wasson wanna-look-alike. So Sheree opaquely tells me that she's been taking a lot of girls pink lately... looking down at my hair... not noticing the huge grin on my face. It took all of a minute to think it over- "let's do it!"
Which is how I ended up like this: