That is what you'll be saying to yourself this weekend if you find yourself at the Holiday Inn in Clarksville, Tennessee, and see me from the back. You may then wonder "Isn't he dead?" followed by "Why is he wearing a bridesmaid's dress?"
I dyed my hair last week, and the outcome ain't pretty, considering I'm taking the pictures this Saturday that will be in the family album for All Time, not performing at the national air guitar championships.
Unlike Frankie from Real World San Diego, I'm not too punk rock for this. I'm not punk rock enough to be employed at the Gap. And yet I find myself with jet black hair.
I had some angry words with the people at the Clairol help hotline (1-800-Clairol, if you need help too. Not that you do; you look great.) She was not impressed by my plight. I clutched feebly the top of the Hazelnut Medium Brown, with its promise of suburban acceptance.
Yes, I told her, I followed the directions. Although I hadn't dyed my hair in months, she said the fact that it was dyed at all was the problem. Apparently it was too light for the shade I chose. That is counterintuitive, I told her. If it's lighter to start with, it should stay lighter, not look like the boy behind me in a one-room schoolhouse dunked it in the inkwell.
She's a trained professional, so she wasn't moved, although she said there's a refund check in the mail.
The upside is that I've finally got a little street cred in Williamsburg. Too bad I'll be states away, ruining my sister's wedding.
Things I saw today:
* A man wearing a T-shirt showing a man holding a knife. It warned that so and so was "Fucking crazy." I panned up to the wearer's face and it was the same as the face on the shirt.
* A woman with what must have literally been Double Q breasts.
* A taxi with tricked out rims.
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