OK, so most of you don't even see a difference between these pictures, but I do. One particular Saturday, I was feeling spontaneous and really anticipating spring, so I decided to highlight my own hair. I wanted it done professionally, but I didn't want to wait. I was shopping at my favorite store, Target, when I passed the do-it-yourself kits. They should really label them with a bold red sticker that says, DO AT YOUR OWN RISK- because they ALWAYS turn out to be a mistake! There are few things I regret, this is one of them. I went the shade of warm caramel. The lady on the box was all smiles as she lured me in- "even you could look like me." All of a sudden I could see myself in a commercial for Herbal Essence, shaking my mane and every head turning as I walk down some busy, sunny street.

YES! I needed to do this. I got home, practically ripping open the box, excited for my "Spring" look. I plop the highlighting cap on my head- laughing at the image and looking fairly similar to my Nonnie (grandmother) during a drizzly day. I pull some hair through the appropriate holes signifying that I am only doing a nice amount on my crown. I now look like the kupee dolls my dad would bring us girls after a work convention. Nice, I almost wanted to take a picture, but I thought "what would I do with that, blackmail myself?" So... I didn't, because that was a stupid thought. I mix the contents into exactly what the box said... a thick milky paste. Looks good. I soak every strand, then wait anxiously to wash it out.

No strand test for me, I want "sun-kissed" hair. 30 minutes- Ding! I rinse it out and put the toner on. I pull the cap off and then, literally RUN to my mirror where my faithful friend, or my blow dryer as some may call it, awaits me. The color looks perfect, well that is until I finish drying it. I see that I didn't get all the way to the roots and I all of a sudden go from feeling gorgeous-chic to garbage-chic. Terror ran through my veins, WHAT HAD I DONE?! Maybe if I straighten it-HA! All I need now is a bra strap off my shoulder covered by a wife-beater and some short-shorts frayed at the bottom, and let's not forget some Tammy Faye eyes.

OK, so maybe I am exaggerating a little, but I was afraid animal control was going to mistake me for a tiger and lock me away in the zoo. Not a bad plan, at least they get steak; I like steak. I grab the box off the floor and take a gander at the lady on the front again. I don't think she is actually smiling. I think she is laughing- "poor girl, you fell for it. BAH!"

Sunday- I was able to curl it and then you couldn't see my roots. However, the color was still VERY vibrant. I may have had stripes, but it blended just right changing my animal persona from a tiger to a calico kitten- no not a kitten, those are cute- a cat- the kind that is unloved and lives in an alley. Pure UHG-UH-LEE.

I ended up going to Martina- whom I told my white trash theory to, and who in return, said "that is something I would say!" AH, ya gotta love her. We think alike! She of course, cleansed me of my feline alter-ego, and I was once again, plain old Trina, but with great hair!

THANKS Martina!

Moral of the story: patience is REALLY a virtue, and box colors are from the DEVIL!