A Little Red Henna

If you’re a teen-aged girl and entering high school, apparently it’s a rule you can’t show up with your natural hair color. I think it must be written somewhere in the student handbook. Very popular is the tri-color guinea pig look, as is any shade of red not commonly found in nature.

The look I don’t quite get is jet black with white streaks. I know the goal is to look older, but I think this overshoots by several decades. But what do I know? I used to lie in the sun basted in baby oil, with lemon juice on my head. It’s a wonder I don’t look like a rotisserie chicken.

I think fourteen is too young to start repeatedly damaging your hair, so I conceded to letting my daughter color her hair with henna. I chose two packs of the reddest red, because I knew she’d be disappointed if the results weren’t dramatic.

The operation took more than two hours. When mixed up, henna resembles something as attractive as fresh manure. It took almost an hour to work the cow pie into every strand of her ultra-thick hair. For another hour she sat patiently on our back deck, draped in a lawn and leaf bag, waiting for the color to develop.

The only way we could figure to rinse the baked-on mess was to get her whole head in the kitchen sink. She lay sprawled on the tile counter with her head dangling under the faucet while I carefully tried to dislodge the grassy bits. Predictably, she loved the result. She’s casting a new glow.

I’m relieved her experimentation has so far been limited to her hair. One of her more creative friends just pierced her own eyebrow with a safety pin. Another is on her way to having earlobes you could pass a golf ball through. I’d rather my kids shave half their head than start using their face as a pincushion.

Of course part of the appeal is how much your parents are going to hate it. So if they ask, you didn’t hear that from me.