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In the beginning it seemed like a fabulous idea. I mean, what better time to be a completely different person than during a sex party, right? With that happy thought in mind, I resolved to color my hair. I resolved to color my hair purple. I reasoned that my hair could match my chemise, which could match my nails, which could match my eyeshadow.
I don’t get out much…have I forgotten the rules about matchy? Matchy’s good, isn’t it?
Please don’t turn me in to What Not To Wear.
So a couple of nights before the party, I applied a bleaching solution to my dark brown (and ahem gray) hair and wrapped my bad self up in a shower cap. Then I sat down to work while the bleach did its happy little bleaching thing.
Only soon, instead of feeling bleachy, my head started feeling hot. Really hot. I took off the cap and peered into the mirror. Yep, my hair color was fading fast, but my face color was, well, not fading. It was reddening. Near my hairline and all down the side of my face, blister-red welts were forming.
Quickly I rinsed off, but the damage was already done. I had straw-blond hair and some nasty chemical burns.
Undeterred by the pain, I prepared myself for the application of purple dye. I have indeed colored my hair before; in the past I’ve been pleased with the dye’s gellish nature, which kept it (mostly) on my head instead of dripping everywhere.
But the purple dye? It was not gellish. It was like water. In my desire to get the job done, I ignored the vivid purple splotches forming on my shoulders, neck, ears and hairline. I applied the dye until it was gone, then tried to remove the extraneous color from my skin.
But it wouldn’t budge. I scrubbed, I soaped, I greased up with oil, but nothing removed the torrents of purple splashed across my body.
Alas, thought I. But I took comfort in the thought that it was only skin. It would not stay stained forever. And at least I had purple hair!
But when I looked at my semi-dried hair, I saw not even a hint of purple. It was far, far different from purple. Was it bluish, you ask? Or reddish? Either of those might be mistaken for purple, especially by one as color-stained and chemical-burned as I.
Oh no. My hair was copper colored, and I don’t mean in the romantic sense that one might call reddish-brown hair coppery. I mean that my hair was the color of a new penny. It was this color.
Clearly this would not match my chemise.
Eventually I managed to scrub off most of the dye that had fallen on my skin, although troubling purple patches remained on the back of my neck where I could not reach. I re-dyed my hair, turning it back to an almost realistic shade of reddish-brown. And the chemical burns? Well, not much could be done with them in the 36 hours before the sex party was set to start.
I just hoped that when people saw me (sitting alone in a chemise that did not match my hair, neck bepurpled and face reddened), they’d keep in mind that no matter how ghastly my appearance, it would in no way detract from my ability to give a really great foot massage.
Or, you know, if the time was right, a damn fine blow job.
Jennifer on February 27th, 2008 
Nick on February 27th, 2008 
Dora on February 27th, 2008 
Britni
PB Zoom
Rupert
badinfluencegirl
'b.
SJ
ted on February 27th, 2008 
Marcelle Manhattan
bellacara on February 27th, 2008 
Miss F on February 27th, 2008 
Wendy
nitebyrd on February 27th, 2008 
Rodrigo
Finn
Haaaaaaa
jackie adshead
Essin' Em
Spanknsparkle
Textgirl on February 27th, 2008 
vistana on February 27th, 2008 
Z
Lustus Mihi
J9 on February 27th, 2008 
~Storm
