The teen years are good for experimenting with all sorts of looks, especially hair colour. When you’re young and beautiful, pretty much anything looks great. And the wonderful thing about any hair mistake is that it grows out.
Unlike tattoos. (Something I just like to mention every so often.)
Our house has been a big consumer of hair dye with three of us resorting to it (you have to guess which three).
Carenza particularly enjoys dyeing the hair of friends. She was responsible for the silver streak that Perran used to sport amongst his black, and she used to do my roots before I got the knack myself.
One day I returned home to find a couple of girls in our bathroom being turned glossy shades of brunette and auburn (apparently that’s different from ginger).
Until I realised that Carenza was using MY TOWELS. I had to choke back the angry bellow in order to be polite to Sophie and Samantha.
As soon as they left, I rammed the stained towels angrily into the washer.
It was only as I was hanging them out later that I noticed there was no trace of the dye left on them – it had all come out in the wash.
“Quick,” I yelled to Carenza, “Ring Samantha and tell her not to go out in the rain.”