At the time, I truly thought I would have to shave my head, and as much as I admire stars like Joey King, Charlize Theron, and Natalie Portman, I'm not an actress, and I don't have the cheekbones. I know it might sound silly, and there are certainly larger world issues than a bleached hair disaster. The bleaching was an entirely horrible idea and as the colorist washed my hair and attempted to comb through it, I watched in terror as fists of hair quite literally fell off my head. (If you're cringing, you should be-that's legitimately the worst thing you can do to freshly weakened, colored hair, and her right to color hair should be revoked.) But, as I said, I panicked and immediately accepted her offer even though she should have known better, apologized, and sent me home.įast-forward about one and a half hours later, and I was sitting in my car, bawling my eyes out with a wet, tangled, bleached-off disaster on top of my head. Also panicked (and a tad annoyed), the colorist told me the only way she could transform me into the bright blonde I wanted was to re-bleach over all of the highlights she had just foiled. In hindsight, I should have sucked it up and sought out a different professional at another salon weeks later, but I had worked myself into a state and was completely desperate for an immediate solution. In a panic (and because I had spent over $300 for said color), I begged her for options as to how she could fix it immediately. The end result was an ashy, mouse-like shade of brown with weird tones of blue and purple (probably from some kind of toning mishap), and I was beyond confused about how the colorist had managed to stray so far from the bright, buttery-white blonde I'd always been. During my sophomore year of college, I experienced what my family, friends, and I refer to as "The Bleach Apocolypse of 2013." After receiving a full head of highlights at a highly regarded salon in Minneapolis (where I'm from), I was left completely unhappy with the color. And while I had hoped I'd gotten mine out of the way in 1997 when my sister took me for a bowl cut at Kid's Hair, I wasn't so lucky. Most people, at some point in their life, will have some kind of hair disaster. Am I doing a good job of foreshadowing my impending hair doom? Not horrible, but on the brink of disaster if I wasn't ultra careful with how I cared for and treated it. By the end of high school, I was asking colorists for full bleach and tones (so I was 100% bleached versus just heavily highlighted), and by the time I got to college, it's fair to say my hair was in a legitimately sorry state. As I got older, my natural baby blonde turned into dirty dishwater, thus my foiling sessions became increasingly regular and increasingly hard on my hair. Peroxide zebra stripes were my first foray into the world of fake blonde hair, and from that day onward, I never went back. So naturally, I begged my mom and dad for an appointment until my mom finally acquiesced and brought me along to her next salon appointment. The only reason I begged for highlights when I reached the fifth grade was that I thought I'd look "glamorous" (lol), and it's what all the cool girls were doing. Of course, at the time, I couldn't have cared less about the color of my hair, and if anything, I probably wanted blue, glitter-streaked highlights like the Spice Girls or edgy black lowlights à la Christina. As a baby and through most of grade school, I was as blonde as blonde could be. Or, at least, until my hair goes white-we'll see what happens first.īut first, some context. It's been going on for 19 years (I'm 29, and my first-ever color job was in fifth grade), and despite the amount of turmoil my strands have endured, I plan on being as blonde as physically possible until my dying day. Hello, my name is Erin Jahns, and I bleach the hell out of my hair.
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