Leslie. She’s my brother’s mother-in-law, but more importantly she’s my hair guru who lives across the pond. She’s got this giant beauty business and she’s recently started giving me subtle hints as to what I should do to make my hair look better. Last Sunday she was in town visiting and suggested that I add some highlights to my new do (which she also helped talk me into). I’ve never really dyed my hair before, so the thought was intriguingly scary.

Then there’s Tilly. My hair stylist and fashion expert. She’s never let me down yet. So, yesterday I decided to give her free reign over this sloppy mess of hair on my head. After all, I never know quite what to do with it. She jumped at the chance to do anything that would make my look less… I don’t know… boring.

My usual hair color is what I like to call “sandy blonde.”

Other, (obviously more jealous) people call it “dusty blonde.” And those with no tact at all call it, “dirty dishwater blonde.” To them I say, pppbbpbpbpbt.

Anyway, Tilly pulled out all these little locks of hair and started holding up the really blonde ones to my sandy blonde hair. She kept asking my opinion and I kept telling her I was too scared to pick and that that’s why I was paying her to do it for me. I then also made sure she knew that I would blame her to thousands of people if she chose poorly. You know, cause fear is a great motivator when it comes to beauty. “Just make me pretty, Tilly.” I told her.

Okay, I lied. I really said, “make me look like a sex god.”

Same thing.

Anyway, she picked a color and got to work on my hair. Before I knew it, I was sitting with one of those fancy machines on my head that I thought was only used for perms.

It wasn’t too bad. But then my eyes started getting dry.

“Oh, your eyes will be fine,” she assured me after I complained. I could read her thoughts though. Quit being such a man about this.

After about seven minutes, my eyes really started burning. Again she assured me it was all right. But this picture proves I wasn’t all right. Don’t you think?

By the grace of God, I survived the hot head thingie, and at the end of the appointment, I walked out looking like this.

What do you think?

Tilly calls it “kissed by the sun.”

I really am a girl, aren’t I.

Dan Pearce, Single Dad Laughing