Hairy Hopes and Dreams of Beauty

I thought I would attempt a root-dye myself as continuing lockdown woes mean that there are still no hairdressers available. Now, I’m known for many things: supposedly (blushing modestly as I write this) I’m a pretty OK writer, a dutiful mom, supportive partner etc

But dear reader, as with most people, there are things I’m not good at...SURPRISE!!! (Betcha didn’t see that coming!)

Here’s where the root dye bit comes in. Just thought I would put in a sweet intro regarding my plus points first.

Anyway my roots were looking distinctly grey and mixed with my shades of brown intertwined with streaks of blonde. This was making me look kind of crazy.



Incidentally the streaks of blonde are courtesy Mirrors Beauty Parlour, a truly happening place which is across the world in Karachi, far from my home in Seattle.

I eagerly await those bi-annual visits as North America can not be trusted with my tresses (that means hair for those of you not so savvy with language). Speaking of dependency on many things Pakistani, the U.S can also not be trusted to find my veins.

When I attempt a blood draw here on the West Coast, I’m poked and prodded and left with purple and crimson dots all over my sensitive Lucknawi flesh (we of Lucknow roots like to be handled gently) and I normally stagger out with no blood drawn.

Veins not found.

So once again I wait to go to the nice men at the AKU labs in Karachi who find my vein with swift finesse in under 30 seconds (Wah! Karachi!)

Many years ago, I asked one of them to not hurt me as the needle was hovering dangerously over my arm, he said, all stoic like “Bibi, aap se koi zaati dushmani to nahi hai.”

Speaking of dependency on many things Pakistani, the U.S can also not be trusted to find my veins. When I attempt a blood draw here on the West Coast, I’m poked and prodded and left with purple and crimson dots all over my sensitive Lucknawi flesh (we of Lucknow roots like to be handled gently)

From then till now, those nice technicians in white lab coats have never let me down. No ‘dushmani’, nothing! I’m ever so pleased.

Speaking of Lucknawi roots, we also like to be offered goodies more than once, and then we will mumble a somewhat genteel ‘yes’. It’s not becoming to just say ‘yes’ the first time around.

After I got married, however, I realized that the second time wasn’t always going to happen as ‘extremely interesting hubby’ is a man with a mission, racing against time. “Sweetie, do u want more dessert?” By the time I would be half way through contemplating a hesitant yes, dessert would be half way down in Hubby’s tummy.

I soon realized that Lucknow needed to be left behind if I wanted to keep up with man with a mission.

Anyway back to the root dye, yes!

I probably would not have attempted it, had my head of motley colors not begun to look so grim.

You see dear reader, I’m constantly hoping to look beautiful for Hubbikins (you remember, Bulbul?)

That’s why the attempts at the Shakira moves happen from time to time as well.

So as we took a walk last week, round and round our neighborhood, I demurely asked Hubs if my greying situation was looking ok?

Hubs peered curiously (he’s into intense focusing) and said that he loved me despite any kind of hair colour.

My interpretation of this dialogue was that it would be best if I did cover up the greys. With carefully feigned nonchalance, I asked him to wait outside Walgreens while I darted in for a minute. With lightning speed I picked up a tube of root dye and then home

we trotted and I locked myself up in the bathroom with the root dye.

In our home, husband and son start looking like terrified ducklings when
I advance with the scissors

On went the disposable gloves, with a flourish I mixed the two solutions and then I started to apply the dye, a brush like instrument full of gooey chocolate brown liquid was applied to my roots... and my hands ...and the two white doors, one leading to the bathroom and one to my closet.

And let’s not forget the fact that it stung the life out of my eyes as I attempted to wash the dye out. Half crying, half massaging my scalp, I emerged from the shower to find that, yes, I had covered up my greys but the dye was all over the place.

I could wash it off my skin but apparently like the corona virus sticks to vulnerable lungs, root dye sticks to white doors!

It just won’t come off! So now there are reminders of the day I dyed my hair everywhere.

It’s a bit unfair really, aesthetic issues are in a frenzied state. Other than root dyes, what about haircuts?

I’m happy to have mine grow straggly and long (kind of like Demi Moore when she was hibernating and having babies) but Hubs and teenage son have these strange wisps sticking out. I get very jealous when I see men and boys with neatly cropped hair, announcing that their wives did a great job.

In our home, husband and son start looking like terrified ducklings when I advance with the scissors. They prefer to look like ruffians rather than risk my snipping work.

Perhaps they’ve seen the dye on the white doors and are worried about my aim, especially since I am armed with huge kitchen shears.

So here we are, wandering around our home, looking eerily like Desi versions of Game of Thrones characters, unkept, untamed overgrown hair – but cutting the oddly glamorous looking figure now and then. At least I think I manage to rock a bright red lip in a pretty cool way

Fact is that we do what we can. I’m not so good at nail colour either so I’m avoiding the dark red.

Pale pink polish (the dripped bits) are easily to camouflage in beige plush carpet.

Our landlord may not be pleased with the aftermath of my attempts at beauty, brown dye on white doors, dots of pink nail colour in the carpet

But the bottom line is that I still want to look lovely for sweetly intense but mostly irate hubby.

And given the challenges of being confined in an enclosed space for over 2 months with the men in my life, if I still want to try and look pretty, that’s a good sign.