#It still cracks me up that an ortho surgeon was SO ENTHRALLED with my hair

[comicreliefmorlock]

Orthopedic Surgeons Like Pink Hair, Apparently

I have always wanted to be a redhead. 

My admiration of fiery locks stretches back to my earliest memories and my absolute adoration of Jessica Rabbit. (Which I mean everyone had that period of adoring Jessica, but...) And cursed with chestnut hair that had, in my mother’s words, “gold and red highlights” did not assuage this desire for flaming red hair in the slightest. 

Naturally, one would assume I began dyeing my hair the moment I realized such a thing was possible, but I wasn’t actually lured into the magic of hair dye until late high school. My sister-in-law--who remains the girliest person I’ve ever met--dyed her hair regularly, heard my profound desire to become a redhead and dutifully set about to fulfill said longing. 

My hair was red and I was astoundingly happy.

Thus began my dedication to the magic of some incredibly stinky chemicals making my scalp itch, my shower looking as if Lars Thorwald was my roommate and an increasing number of shirts with red/dark brown/pink stains on them. 

Now having naturally dark hair meant I was unable to achieve truly red hair. I’m talking flaming. I wanted there to be absolutely no doubt that my hair was RED. For a considerable time, however, I was a coward. I feared what might come if I were to attempt bleaching my hair to get that real red I was eternally chasing. 

Until 2011.

Working in an operating room meant two things specifically: a stringent dress code (mainly for the sake of safety--i.e. no fake nails) and a lot of flexibility in said dress code simply because focus was on patient care and not on making sure everyone followed the hospital code to the letter. 

[One example? I kept my nails black for a month, got acrylics (painted black) and policy changed so personnel who didn’t interact with patients were allowed to have acrylics. HAH. Make me follow rules? I’ll show you what’s what.]

I wasn’t intending on flouting the dress code when I bought a DIY bleach kit and a couple boxes of BRIGHT red hair dye. It was simple math--I’d dyed my hair black a few months back, wanted to go back to red and the only way to effectively do that was to strip off the black and give my red dye a fresh bleached blonde base to settle into. 

Now, you should probably have someone help when you bleach your hair for the first time ever. Preferably someone with actual experience dyeing hair (their own or someone else’s). My second ex had no experience whatsoever, but I blithely submitted my head to him as he slathered on the bleach. 

I hadn’t taken a couple of things into account. One, the bleached areas we started with were going to be saturated for muuuuuuch longer than the rest. Two, I hadn’t chosen a dark red dye. I’d gone for a bright, lovely RED-red, because every time I’d dyed my hair before, I’d always gone up a shade or two in order to get a brighter shade on my naturally dark hair. 

When the bleach was washed out, I was a punk dandelion. 

My hair went from bright yellowish-white at the crown to an amazing orange at the tips. I looked like a Q-tip on fire.

Needless to say, this was not what I’d anticipated happening post-bleach. However, I still had me two boxes of red dye (I always bought two because long, thick hair = needs lots of dye) and I could fix this. The red might be a little brighter than usual, but it’d cover up all the strange tonal areas and be a pleasant red. 

The result?

Pink.

Not just “pink” but neon rose straight through to pale pastel. There was no ‘red,’ that was not a shade that happened. Somehow, through the magic of inexpertly applied chemistry, I ended up with absolutely wild pink hair. 

Having committed this error of judgement, I had two realizations: it was Sunday night and I had less than 24 hours before I had to show up at work. In the conservative hospital. With the stringent dress code. 

Two possibilities presented themselves: run to the nearest store, grab dark red dye and hope for the best or cover up as much hair as possible with a scrub cap and wait out a few days to avoid burning my hair any worse than it’d already suffered. 

I slathered on conditioner like it was going out of style, used every bit of coconut oil I could and made sure I had the hand-sewn cutsey scrub caps available that one of the OR nurses had lovingly given me. 

Once I arrived at work and was faced with the woman who I have eternally proclaimed “Best Supervisor Ever,” I was struck with a guilty conscience. There was no way I couldn’t tell her about the mishap and let her know I was going to remedy this as soon as it was safely possible. 

So with only her in the office, I tugged off my scrub cap, unfastened the clip and revealed the elbow-length rush of sheer pink that my hair had become. Her response was to laugh so hard she nearly cried, all the while trying to gasp that it actually didn’t “look bad.”

As I’m sharing a laugh with her--because if I couldn’t laugh at myself, I’d be absolutely insufferable--the office door opens and one of the orthopedic surgeons walks in. He was one of the nicer doctors in the OR, always pleasant and treated the support staff with respect. 

And all he managed to say was “...it’s so pink!” 

He’d never seen so much pink hair before. He was fascinated. As I’m standing there between the printer and the desk, awkwardly trying not to laugh, he circled me, staring at the flood of pink that was floofing out over my shoulders. And then he nearly killed me by giving me the most Earnest Look and asking “...can I touch it?”

I, of course, said yes and his surgeon-skilled hands were immediately buried in my hair. He floofed it, fluffed it, held it up, turned it over and rubbed it between his fingers, all the while whispering “It’s so pink! ...and soft! ...and pink!”

This went on for a full five minutes. 

With my supervisor’s assurance that I wasn’t going to be fired for a “hair mishap,” I settled back in to work and my only concession to the whole thing was to make sure I wore a full-coverage scrub cap every day for the week or so that I gave my hair to recover. 

Except for what became the evening routine. 

Between five and six in the evening, the surgeon would come into view, peering towards the office from around the corner. He’d always check to make sure I was alone before creeping up to the window--open to let people hand in paperwork without breaking stride--and whisper “Can I?”

I nodded. And he’d dash around to the door, pop into the office and wait with eager anticipation until I’d gotten my scrub cap and hair clip off. 

And then he just went to town. This MD with decades of experience and specialized training, nearly in his early sixties, would stand behind me and act like my hair was a brand-new toy JUST like one he’d always wanted as a kid and now he could damn well have it. 

Floofing, flipping, petting, braiding, unbraiding, petting, smoothing, stroking my hair with an expression of absolutely childlike glee while whispering “...it’s so pink! ...and soft! ...and pink!”

The day I came to work with my hair redyed a more subdued, appropriate red, I saw what true disappointment looked like. He never asked to play with my hair again, but every so often, he’d bring paperwork to the office and say “It was just so pink.”

#Angel's Life Experiences #My mother specifically requested I write this one out #She absolutely loves this story #It still cracks me up that an ortho surgeon was SO ENTHRALLED with my hair #God he had fun with it LOL #Dr Brindley just found it to be the B E S T thing ever