At least it's not purple.

I feel dumb. And it's not because Kris beat me at some blog-challenge. No, I doubt I'll be feeling that brand of humiliation ever (although he has challenged me to a 100-metre dash. It'll be wheezing, pot-bellied poetry in motion, folks. Mark your calendars).

No, I feel dumb because I dyed my hair today--and I can't really tell the difference.

I've never dyed my hair (outside of a few odd high-school flirtations with a friend's bottle of Alpine green La Riche Directions). At my last visit to a Toronto salon, though, the stylist, while hacking her way through my impenetrable locks, was convinced otherwise. "Bad dye job?" she asked, overly made-up face askew, while combing through red (natural) highlights. Nope, totally mine. She gave me a complimentary makeover later out of awkward guilt.

As for those "terrible" highlights, I can still see them through the black dye. Funny, considering I'd often indignantly point them out when people would describe my hair as black. "Fucking Helen Keller knows my hair isn't black!" I'd scream, "It's clearly chestnut brown with auburn highlights! And then I'd round-house kick them in the gut while tossing throwing stars made of colour-swatches at their eyes.

I'm tired of fighting, though. Next time, I'll go to a salon. I'm sure their dislike of my natural hair colour will yield favourable results.