Wanna guess how many times I can screw up my hair in one year?

When I was in high school, I had blonde hair, platinum blonde to be exact. Every six weeks, I would dye my hair religiously. You could set your clock to my hair dying rituals. I was anal, to say the least.

By the time I graduated high school, I was left with less than stellar hair. To be quite frank, my head looked like what you would find in the lint trap in your dryer, after doing a load of whites. It was bad.

When I met Tim, we made a pact. He agreed that if I grew my hair out to its natural color (I had no idea what it was); he’d cut his long hair (it went down to the middle of his back), into a more business type of style. After two and a half grueling years, with my two-toned hair (and one hair cut later), I was officially a brunette. Gone were the days of coloring my hair. And, gone was my cotton like hair. I was left with beautiful, shiny hair in a color that was new, but nice enough.

Fast forward a couple years later . . . By this point, my hair was long, layered, and gorgeous. It was the color or a nice deep cherry wood, and suited me well. Everywhere I went people would compliment me on my hair. But, was that enough for me? Of course not.

Last year, I decided that I had had enough with my long hair and got it all cut off, just below my shoulders, and highlighted. I had convinced myself that I needed something easier to maintain. While the style was cute enough, it was a far cry away from what it had looked like, just a few hours prior. And, I might add, it was not at all easier to maintain. Now, I had no choice but to blow-dry it, Every. Single. Day. Gone were the days where I could easily throw my hair back into a hair tie, when I was short on time. Nor was I able to just throw some gel in it, leaving it to dry naturally wavy on it’s own. From that point on I vowed to get my hair back to what it was before the cut.

Well, a couple weeks ago, I got a bug up my butt that made me want bangs again. So, off to the local Hair Cuttery I went, where I was met with a woman who just so happened to hate her job that day, either that or she had a serious case of PMS. In either case, I was her “lucky” victim.

She ripped, and pulled, and cut her way through my hair, leaving me with an uneven, unflattering, choppy 'do, complete with bangs that serve no other use, or style, than to get in my face 200,000,000 times a day. Then, (and by golly there is a “then”) if that wasn’t enough torture for one week, a couple days of later I decided to, once again, try my hand at some hair dye. This time, instead of going for the drastic blonde change, I opted for a more muted auburn tone.

The outcome? As if a bad haircut wasn’t enough, now it’s accented (like a big ol' neon sign)with a bright brassy dye job. Cinnamon Chestnut my ass, try cheap rusting copper, instead!

Luckily, I think I’ve finally waited long enough to try my hand at another box of dye. So, tonight I’m going to face my bathroom mirror once again for another grueling match of a battle now know as “Hair Wrangling". So far, my hair has come out on top, but I’m feeling a change in the air tonight.

Hopefully by this time tomorrow, I’ll be blessed with a nice brown color atop my head, and not something that closely resembles Barney. In color and texture.