I Accidentally Washed My Hair Before Bleaching Novels & Stories

she said happily. She rushed me back into the bathroom and unwrapped my hair. I tipped my head into the sink and allowed her to wash my hair. It felt nice having someone help wash my hair; her fingers were slender and scrubbed my scalp with ease. As she continued to wash, her eyes grew wider. I wondered what it was she was seeing. Perhaps the color of the dye was washing down the sink.

I sprint across the street to the nearest fast-food joint and get to work in the bathroom. It takes nearly three hours to bleach and then dye my hair, hiding in the stall most of the time, praying that no one questions my presence here and that my hair doesn’t fall out due to my massive incompetence. I’m no hairdresser, that’s for darn sure, but it actually doesn’t look too bad in the end. Next time, I’ll pay someone to do it properly. This time, though, I couldn’t risk getting spotted somewhere.

It fееlѕ аmаzіng tо bе clean, and аftеr ѕlірріng іntо Brеndа’ѕ clothes, I’m tоtаllу rеfrеѕhеd. Blake hаѕ no hаіr drуеr, ѕо I twіѕt mу hаіr іntо a mеѕѕу bun and I fееl rеаdу to tаkе оn fіndіng April аgаіn.

I yelled after the steam cleared from my eyes. "Sorry," she said, and the water became cold, soothing the scalding sensation I had felt earlier. Thirty minutes later, and after several washes using vinegar, baking soda, and a coconut-smelling shampoo, my hair was mostly back to its original color. Even though it was still wet, I could see the red, albeit darker. "I don't think it will go back to the exact color it was," I said as I fingered the dark burgundy locks. "It might be a bit darker," she said as she dropped a towel on my head.

I needed to be someone with a rougher background, someone who belonged in that world. I bought a box of hair dye from the drugstore. Platinum blonde, the kind that would completely change how I looked. Back home I spread newspapers on my bathroom floor and read the instructions twice before mixing the chemicals. The process took three hours. First bleaching my natural auburn hair until it was almost white, then applying the blonde color. The smell was awful and burned my eyes but I kept working. When I finally rinsed out the dye and looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself.

Strangely, the stylist’s hands were shaking as he began inspecting Tessa’s damaged hair. “All right, after looking at your hair, I think after bleaching and two weeks of treatment, it’ll go back to normal, or at least close to your original color. The more you wash it, the faster it comes back,” he said, his hands trembling as he reached for the products. “I’ll start now, okay?” Tessa could tell the guy sitting a few feet away was the reason the stylist was nervous. “Don’t you have work or something?” she asked, trying to keep her head still.

I hung up and stood in the kitchen for a moment, looking at nothing in particular. Then I went to the bathroom, opened the cabinet under the sink, and took out the box I had been keeping there for weeks. The hair bleach. I had bought it the day after the ball, when I had come home from the terrace and stood in front of the mirror for a long time thinking about those brown eyes. My hair was blonde. Always had been. It was also, apparently, memorable enough that a man I had danced with for five minutes in a dark ballroom had begun asking questions about me thereafter, if Marlon's intelligence was accurate. I wasn't taking chances.

"Time for you to blue me." I follow her back to the bathroom, where she's dumped the contents of the pot of dye into the same plastic bowl she used to mix up her bleach, but now there's a different tint brush on the side of the sink and a box of disposable gloves. She sits down in the chair and tosses her head forward to remove the towel, revealing her freshly bleached, untoned hair. "How do you feel now that the brown is all gone?" I ask her, sectioning her hair off with clips. The bleach has dried it out a little, but there's not too much damage.

The woman deserved better. She now made her way down the hallway and towards her bedroom. When she reached there, she opened the door and walked in. She was all sweaty and that made her feel so uncomfortable so she just wanted to take a cold shower before doing what she had planned to do. She walked into the bathroom and turned the water on. While removing her clothes, her eyes landed on her reflection in the mirror and she saw a streak of white in her hair. “What the hell?” She whispered to herself in disbelief and annoyance. “How?” She walked closer to the mirror and touched the streak of white in her hair. She had just dyed her hair black this morning, how was this even possible?

Although I had a feeling they would have told me to do it myself, anyway. Once I was clean, I jumped out of the cold water and rifled through the wardrobe until I found a clean dress. My legs and arms were stiff and aching as I tugged it on, so much so that it was a feat just to tie the sash in the back. Next, I got to work on my hair. My poor, poor hair. Before, all of the salon treatments I was able to get—along with my expensive array of shampoos, conditioners, masks, and the like—was enough to counteract the damage done by the bleach. My hair looked just as healthy as it had before bleaching it.