‘I probably shouldn’t say this, but I know how to dye hair.’ That’s what my boyfriend said a few days ago, when I finally caved in and bought some black dye to cover the vast field of roots coming through at the top of my head. (I’ve been putting it off for two reasons. One because of money. Two because it’s a pain in the arse and recently I’ve felt like I’ve had more important things to do. Like sharing hilarious wankery on Facebook and binge watching Penny Dreadful. I shouldn’t have put it off through, because every morning when I’d wake up I’d be like ‘fuuuuuck, I look so bloody bad! My hair is my armour and like armour it needs to be cared for if it’s going to work for me. Neglecting it shouldn’t even be an option.) Sebastian’s confession came as something as a surprise. I don’t know many men who can hold up a hand and say ‘yeah, I know what I’m doing what that shit.’ But I was impressed and did a quiet fist pump in my head.
Today I announced that I’d had enough of my crap hair and Sebastian immediately volunteered his hair dressing services. He was all professional – chair in the bathroom, newspaper on the floor – and went at my hair with the dye with only gentleness. (My mother dyed by hair for nearly two decades, and I appreciated her efforts each and every time, especially since it was inevitable that her bathroom was going to be decorated with a new layer of dye.) I could hardly believe I was actually getting my hair dyed as Sebastian worked his way around my head. Getting my hair dyed has never been a relaxing experience, but that changed today as my man proved that he can do absolutely-every-fucking-thing.
And yes, the dye job was exceptional. No roots on show, no dye on the toilet and minimal stainage on my face. Being all back to black, I felt like a much improved, happier, more confident woman. Job well done, my love.