Oops was because the instructions read to start thoroughly with the roots and progress down the hair. Nickle had been too thorough.
"You just have too much hair. But it'll be fine, I'll massage the rest of your hair into your scalp and the dye will go everywhere."
It didn't. When I washed it out, the dye concentrated in my roots and then deteriorated. Three-quarters of my hair was the light brown of a rat's ass. The top quarter of my hair was maroon. I had wanted to go darker, but Nickle had selected a maroon box. I hadn't known. My mom cried.
As female college students, paying to have our hair cut and dyed cost the equivalent of three kegs and a damn good party. I have the hairdressing prowess of Donald Trump. My friend Fi-T can cut hair in a straight line. Fi-T consented to dye and cut Twat's hair.
As with most activities, preparation is a prerequisite.
Twat and Fi-T prepared by going to Albertsons. They bought hair dye and four forties. On the drive back to our apartment, they purchased a sack of weed. Once at our apartment, they each took three Vicodin and three bong rips. After each knocking back a forty, Twat sat in the living room on one of our kitchen chairs with a towel around her shoulders. As Fi-T patted dark dye into Twat's long brown hair, she drank another forty. Fi-T ran out of dye four inches from the bottom of Twat's hair. The dye coupled with her subsequent hair cut and her hair looked like it could be a frontrunner in the annual world's ugliest dog contest.