Old Yeller

I have always been a very fast showerer. Even when I think I'm lingering, I'm not - I'm in and out in ten minutes.

Or I should change all the verb tenses in that previous sentence to indicate that I used to be such a showerer.

I blame my yellow hair. In an attempt to go to blonde from a light ash brown, I've been dousing my head monthly in Feria's platinumest blonde hair dye. Honestly, I'm surprised I'm not bald considering what I put my hair through on a daily basis, what with the dying and the ironing and blow-drying and voodoo witch doctor-y-like prayers beseeching the gods of hair to please let me wake up one morning with waist-length, perfectly highlighted and artistically tousled tresses.

But the fact is I have yellow hair. Bright yellow. Not orange, not strawberry blonde, but yellow. School-bus yellow. Carnation yellow. Peeps yellow.

I was lamenting the state of my hair to a fellow rollergirl (whose blonde and pink hair I lust after) and she recommended I go to the local beauty supply store and buy a shampoo that is made to draw the brassiness and yellow tones out of blonde hair.

The next day I found myself in line behind a woman with limp mousy hair who was buying not one, not two, but seven home permanent kits ready to shell out $8 for purple shampoo that would make my hair look as blonde as Gwen Stefani's.

Now my daily shower routine takes forever because, apparently, the purpleness of the shampoo isn't powerful enough in and of itsownself. I have to shampoo twice, letting the second shampoo sit on my head for 3-5 minutes. This, combined with my conditioner that requires me to leave it on for 3 minutes as well means I'm already approaching my standard total shower time. To kill the time, I shave my pits and my legs. And since my legs are about 10 miles long, you'd think this would more than take up my wait time. Rather, I've become used to zipping along with the shaving, so I usually find myself standing there for a good five minutes, just hanging out.

Occasionally, I do lifts to strengthen my calves for skating. Sometimes I sing. But mostly I stand there and think about how bored I am.

And the payoff? I get out of the shower what seems like weeks later and blow-dry my hair, only to discover it looks exactly the same as when I got in. And yet, somehow, this doesn't deter me from doing the same thing all over again the next day. I might agree with that whole beauty is pain thing (eyebrow plucking, waxing your naughty bits, etc.), but I have a harder time accepting that beauty is boredom...