This, I thought, surveying my hair--which, the fifteen-year-old observes, looks "like something orange fell on it"--is what you get for not really speaking German all that well.
"Hallowe'en," says my husband.
"I wish I had something to put on my head," I muse.
"How 'bout a burqa?" says the kid.
What happened was I grabbed off the shelf of the local DM a box of stuff that seemed like it was the same color as the stuff I usually use, which they didn't happen to have. This new stuff added "Glam Lights," or streaks, as far as I could make out. I didn't read the information at the bottom of the box, which warned, "Glamouröse Strähnchen-look in einem Bürstenstrich," which means, "Glamorous streaks with a brush stroke." So I was supposed to use the little plastic brush provided to comb through selected tiny portions of hair, instead of dumping the bottle over my head, the way I usually do, and until now it's always come out much better than when those over-eager stylists at the hair salon do it.
Black is about the only color I can wear now. Or white. Hallowe'en.
"You look like you're fighting with the rebels," says the kid, before bursting into gleeful chuckles and assuring me that he means it in a nice way.
The other thing is that the older you are, the less you should go for orangey-blonde. Dark blonde kind of makes you look marginally less older. This (fortunately unique) shade that is now mine definitely does not give me a youthful look.
"What will your sister say when I pick her up from school?" I ask the kid.
"She'll say, 'where's my mommy?'" he replies.
My husband reassures me that really it's not so bad.
But he loves me, you see.
P.S. What she actually said, my ten-year-old, was, "Sorry, Mommy, but with that bright make-up and the circles under your eyes, you really do look like a zombie."
My appointment with the hairdresser--who glanced dubiously at my orange head and said, "we'll see what we can do!"--is tomorrow morning.