Roman RedA “Hairy” Travel TaleBy Rose Lee HaydenYou know that you have been away from home for more than a little while when you look in the mirror …and the mirror does not lie…and you cannot escape the moment of truth. The time has definitely come to cover up those dark roots and color your hair, or else join a circus. Time to take action, get out that hair dye and, as the Nike commercial commands, “Just Do It!” No problem. What could be easier in this global marketplace than buying the same brand of hair coloring, the same number formula? Turns out, there is good news and bad. First, the good news. The brand – which shall go unnamed so as to avoid any legal entanglements – is on all the shelves here in Rome. The bad news is that the color formula numbers are different, and everything is in Italian. This should come as no surprise. I am living in Italy, after all, and can hardly expect English translations on boxes of hair dye. But not to worry! The number ranges for colors are about the same, and lovely on the back show you the hair color you will end up with depending on the hair color you start out with - at least in theory. So what can go wrong?
Once home, it’s now or never. With a mixture of trepidation and linguistic bravado, I open the box. It contains – oh, no! – all sorts of different stuff. The usual assortment of bottles and tubes are just not the same. The plastic gloves, however, are superior. Out with the dictionary, in with the new hair color. I am confident that I have a fighting chance at translating the instructions. First, I must versare (pour) the tube of coloring cream into the flacone (bottle) and riavvitare (rescrew on the top) and agitare (shake) vigorously to get the perfect omogenea (homogeneous???) mix. Next, I must rompere (break) off the tip of the bottle cap and proceed to apply the mixture to my hair – using it completamente and immediatamente. (I felt pretty confident about not having to look up these last two words in the instructions. Bet you got them too. Good for us!) Now I must lasciare (leave it on) for 30 minutes. As the time passes and I check on the progress of “better living through chemistry” – a subject I never mastered either in high school or college – I note that the mixture has taken on a distinctly orange hue. Maybe I should have gone home for that dictionary after all to see whether my idea of “medium auburn” and the Italian description bore any similarity to each other. Too late now… When the 30 minutes are up, I am instructed to versare (pour) a little tepid water on my hair, lightly massage it through, then wash it out until no more color comes out and the rinse water is clean. I note with horror how my shower drain is swallowing what looks like human blood as the red hair dye slowly but surely rinses away. I cannot help but shiver as I relive that terrifying scene in Alfred Hitchcock’s “Psycho” – the brutal stabbing and slashing, the bloody shower stall… That scene is so etched in my memory that I confess that I have never been able to take a shower in any hotel or motel without fear that some maniac is lurking out there somewhere, waiting to strike. Now for the last step. Even with the dictionary, this one is a bit curious. I must ripartire (divide up?) the protective crème rinse, massage it through my hair and leave it on for two minutes before washing it out, again waiting for the water to be pure and clean. Out of the shower, looking in the mirror, I note with dismay that the color – wet – looks as if I had applied polyurethane wood stain rather than hair coloring. Heart beating rapidly in my chest, I pick up the hair dryer, hoping that once dry, my hair will lose its “newly-refinished bookshelf” look. And indeed, the color lightens; in fact, it lightens a lot. The final shade of red would make Howdy Doody jealous. Blaming the hair dye, certainly not my imperfect Italian language skills for purchasing the wrong color, I decide not to admit defeat. My pride prohibits me from going around the corner to the local beauty shop for “first aid.” After all, I only have to live with this “new look” for the next five weeks or so before I can safely re-dye my hair a color guaranteed not to stop traffic. Dyeing it again, too soon, is not recommended. It might fall out. Grunge may be “in,” but in my case, bald would definitely not be beautiful. Adopting a Zen-like attitude, having decided to make the best of a bad thing, I am determined to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. If, and inevitably when well-meaning friends (suppressing horror and a laugh at my expense) ask what happened to my hair, I will proudly refer to my flaming locks as the hottest new “hair statement” in fashion-savvy Italy – Roman Red! PHOTO CREDIT: Madelyn Miller |
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Surveying the boxes featuring lovely redheads, I wish I had brought my handy little pocket Italian dictionary along. Rosso is red, any wine drinker knows that, but what is ramato, for goodness sake? What about castana chiaro rosso – given the word order, does it mean “clear chestnut red” or “chestnut clear red?” But time’s a wasting. Buying a box of what I roughly translate as a medium auburn color, one I have used for many a year, and as close to the American formula number as I can get, I prepare for the big event.