Yoga makes me do crazy things. For example, I went to yoga class with my mother and Judy last night and ended up with purple hair. Hold on. Let me back up.
I swung by SuburbaGym, walking upstairs to find my mother jogging away on a treadmill and listening to the That Thing You Do Soundtrack.
“Hi honey! Do you want to come to yoga! It’s in a half and hour and I’ll pay!”
I guess I was going to yoga.
My mom’s yoga class is pretty chill, led by Stephanie who tells us how much she loves us and how cheese makes her drunk. She lights incense and plays Tibetan music, having us warm our eyeballs with our energy and contort our bodies so we cleanse our organs of toxins and bad karma. Judy’s been joining mom lately and the three of us set up mats at one end of the room, warmly greeted by Stephanie who is wildly excited at the concept of a mother/daughter yoga combo.
Towards the end of the hour and 15 minute class, we lie on our backs and relax, harnessing our chi and focusing on our breathing. So relaxed, now with clean organs and karma, I gazed into my inner eye and felt I needed to be more fashion forward. I’ve been playing it too safe. I needed a change and a big one. Suddenly, I saw a fabulous vision of myself.
As a redhead. Or rather, as a young Patricia Field.
Cheese may make Stephanie drunk, but yoga must make me high because after class, I marched myself over to RiteAid and bought the brightest red hair dye I could find. I presented this concept to Mikey as we watched Runway last night and he seemed highly enthusiastic, for not other reason, I suspect, then needing some new form of entertainment.
“Seriously. If I shouldn’t do it, tell me now.”
“Go for it!”
Thus, this morning, I awoke at 6 am and mixed my chemicals, piling my damp, scarlet colored locks on top of my head and waiting. The box said to wait 20 minutes, or for more dramatic color, 40 minutes. Never on for subtlety, I waited an hour.
I got in the shower and proceeded to wash it out. The tub and curtains looked like the shower scene from Psycho, red dye covered everything around me and as sopping wet hair dangled right in front of my face, I started to realize what I had done.
This is starting to look really purple.
My eyes drenched in dye, I emerged from the shower sniffling and rubbing my eyes, ruining a white towel as I desperately dried my coif and waiting for the results. Unbeknownst to me, my beloved roommate thought said sniffling was a crying girl in his bathroom and split.
It’s nice to know that Mikey’s there for me when I’m having an aesthetic panic attack.
This also meant that he wasn’t there when I looked in the mirror and burst into laughter.
“Michael. Get in here. Oh my god, you have to see this.”
I called his cell.
“Did you leave?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. I look like Barney and I’m afraid to go to work. But you HAVE to see this.”
“I thought you were crying. So I left.”
“I was not! I have to go. My hair is half dry and I have to finish styling. Don’t worry. But it’s really, uh, purple.”
As I finished blow-drying and flipping my ends, it wasn’t half bad. “It’s like Cabernet.” I said aloud. “How appropriate.”
Even as I look at it now, it’s like a really dark magenta. Certainly not like Patricia Fields and due to fade a bit with washing and headscarves, but not half-hideous. Okay, maybe half-hideous. But just half. It’s one hell of a statement. I’ve decided I like it. In fact, as I texted Michael later that morning, it’s the hottest hair color ever.
That being said, I don’t care what happens to my chakras, keep me away from that yoga class…