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Monday, October 14, 2013

Pinky’s Letter to her Sixteen Year Old Self. (Part One)

I know how trite, overdone and egocentric this genre of writing is but I DON’T CARE!

If Ita Buttrose can do it then so can I!

Dear Pinky,

Stop! Put that Schwarzkopf Nordic Blonde hair dye down at once! Listen to your bloody mother when she tries to warn you for once. When you peer under the shower cap after only ten minutes you’ll panic, imagining you’re turning into Malibu Barbie and rinse the bleach out prematurely.

The result will be a bright, pumpkin orange mane which will take two years to grow out. You’ll look like a King’s Cross hooker for the entire of Grade 12 and the boys will assume you’re up for it.

Please run for the hills when your mother feels sorry for poor Pinky and her tangerine tufts and employs Auntie Gloria to bestow one of her ‘special’ home perms on you. 

The double chemical whammy will initiate a mass exodus of hair with clumps falling out at the roots occasioning an 
“I’ve just been on a holiday in downtown Chernobyl” appearance.

It won’t be pretty.

When you are nineteen, thinking you have it hand, you’ll visit a hairdresser who will streak your hair ‘professionally’. The resultant streaks will take on an unappealing, brassy, yellow shade except for when you desperately attempt to disguise the tacky hue with Magic Silver White when the streaks will be deep purple.

You are never going to be a blonde. Your Scottish heritage has granted you with auburn tinged tresses and the red hue can never be bleached out even if you submerge your head in a bottle of 100% hydrogen peroxide overnight.

I’m dreadfully sorry but you will NEVER look like Agnetha from ABBA.

Alas, after giving birth to your first baby, needing a fresh change, like a moth to a flame you will again go down the perilous peroxide path… but this time you’ll go the whole hog and your entire head will look like you’re wearing a jaundiced Big Bird wig.

There will be tears.

By the time your third baby is about to be born the sickly locks will have finally grown out… but only after you’ve endured some decidedly repulsive haircuts closely resembling Prince Valiant...

Or David from Psychoville...

“There you go!” the hairdresser will say the day before you check yourself in for the Caesarean, 
“I call that my hospital haircut.”

You pay her at the counter… holding back the violent sobbing whilst staring out the corner of your eye at the mirror, noting with deep dismay the striking similarity you have to a ten year old boy.
Please listen to my advice, Pinky. Blondes don’t always have more fun.

Love, Pinky xx