Colors, colors... I am a nightmare walking, psychopath talking...

Yeah. I just quoted the rap song "Colors" from the movie Colors starring Sean Penn. Wanna make something of it?!

Instead of talking about gang signs (which, by the way, is one of the google keywords that leads people to my blog, of all things), I'm going to talk tough about follicles. Curly follicles. Follicles that sometimes cooperate, sometimes not.

I've been in a hair situation for some time now. For a few years, I dyed my hair various tones of red with henna. It was beautiful to behold, my shiny red head.

However, while I was pregnant, I didn't want to deal with the goop of henna anymore. I wanted my old head back. Something a bit more like this, but without the angry stare.

Maybe this one is a little less frightening to behold?

So, I've resorted to using home hair dye kits. It works out very nicely in the end, but the effort to do it feels like I am polluting our house and killing all living things within a two mile radius.

Today, it was about 34 degrees outside. This meant that I would need to buck up, lil' trooper, and suffer through cold winds blowing air on me as I attempted to breathe through the fumes of dye. I put a fan in the bathroom window to give me necessary oxygen as I tried to delicately but QUICKLY apply the goop to my head. Do you know how hard it is to gasp for air while applying toxic stink to your head without dripping it? I'm not sure even Cirque du Soleil could pull it off.

After the necessary amount of time elapsed for proper follicle damage, I rushed to the tub and bent over to keep my head under the tap to rinse the offensive material from my noggin. This, of course, gave me a head rush. Then, I had to leap into the shower and rinse the remaining slop off of my person, only to follow that with a dollop of conditioning creme provided by the manufacturer. I'm always amazed how my hair goes from feeling like a straw bale from the dye to smooth, flaxen goddess tresses from the conditioning creme. Science and toxins are wondrous things.

Now, I have lovely locks that are reminiscent of my angry prom picture from high school. I flip my hair back and forth, sometimes pausing in mid-pose to allow Phil to admire the movement of coif. It's sort of like the ending of every "CHiPs" episode - throw your head back and laugh, perhaps point at each other, then freeze! Perfect! End scene.

Not that any of this matters. Within days, I will have been snatched bald by my young son who is learning how to reach and grab for things. But the hair surrounding those bald spots will look fabulous.