Pinky in the Zoo

Catchy band name, eh?

This is the story of a girl who always dreamed of having fluorescent hair. This girl once bought a wig of pink, and wore it oft, finding any and every reason to wear it in public. It also made a number of appearances (three, to be exact) at Harry Potter release parties, from Barnes and Noble to the Tattered Cover, as the key piece for producing the venerated visage of Nymphadora Tonks.

So this girl dreams of one day creating such a mane, dying blonde locks a rosy shade. Nay, say her elders. So she bides her time until one day realizes that whilst in a foreign land, she will be free from those who may dislike the look. After obtaining the blessing of her parents (“Do whatever you want to your hair over there, just come back looking normal”) she seeks out a stylist and goes forth to fulfill her greatest cosmetic desire.

So last Wednesday, I dyed my hair pink.

I chose to do it at a salon called Sanrizz which is along my walk to school. I inquired about a dye job, got a price quote and prepared for D-Day. When the day had finally arrived, I armed myself with Tonksqesue confidence and strode into the salon after class.


A stock photo of a Sanrizz Salon

My hairstylist was a guy named Ben. Ben is a little taller than me, has a very stylish, side-shaved-with-flippy-long-on-top-hair-yes-I-do-hair-hair, a gauged ear, and lots of tattoos. (Mommy, just Google “gauged ear.” Actually, no. Do not Google that. Stay far away from googling that.) Basically the perfect person you want dying your hair the color of a fluorescent flamingo. First he bleached it yellow-white. After he washed it out, I tipped my head out of the basin, looked in the mirror and realized what I would look like as an alien. With mutant eyebrows. Then came the first wave of pink.

During this time the salon speakers were playing an array of American pop-punk, from Paramore to Green Day. I felt particularly interesting when the line “Don’t want to be an American idiot” came on just as Ben was telling me that if the dye causes all my hair to fall out, that’ll teach me to be rebellious. Crap.

I spent the hours dying and washing and dying (the color comes in waves) reading the book a bought a few weeks ago, “Moab is my Washpot” by Stephen Fry. I have been a fan of Fry ever since I met him through Hugh Laurie, the genius doc who runs my household. (Literally. My family’s entire week is built around a community viewing of House.) I became obsessed with Hugh Laurie, ran through his filmography and right into “A Bit of Fry and Laurie.” YouTube it sometime. It’s like SNL, but funnier. So when I saw Fry’s autobiography for 3lbs in HMV (the black whole of music and books that ceaselessly consumes my stipend) I bought it right away and have been picking at it in between classes and on buses and trains. It’s a fantastic look at the life of a boy growing up in upper-middle-class England, while at the same time being outwardly hilarious. There have been many moments when riding the train I have let out a lone “HAH!” because of a certain line or wording that Mr. Fry uses.

But when Green Day’s “American Idiot” came on in the middle of a hair salon in London, I had to put the book down and comment. This started Ben down a long road of conversation in which he explained his love of poetry, his work with “spoken word,” his description of some of the top spoken word artists around today, and his dreams of one day opening and owning a spoken word poetry venue. He explained his current work writing poetry about Hitler (“The man just fascinates me”) and how American punk has long run past its glory days of lyrics story telling. He even ran into the back room and came back with a list of British artists and bands I had to listen to for their lyrical value.

At this point we had done two washes of the pink, and at best, I looked like a mermaid. At worst, it looked like someone who’d had an entire strawberry milkshake had barfed all over my head. Three hours, three washes and two stylists after I walked in we decided we could do nothing else that day and I was told to return on Friday. I walked home with the gait of triumph, trying not to think about the fact that I had just thrown myself head-first (yup) into the rabbit hole, and the only thing to do was keep going.



I do my best to keep the internet creepies at bay. Thus far I have prided myself on using interesting angles to avoid overly informative shots, but it's kinda hard to pull off with the hair. So, here's looking at me.

I returned to my flat in triumph (it wasn’t that bad) and lots of photo-taking. That evening we hosted a dinner for one of our professors, Cornelius O’Boyle. It was an evening of good food and better conversation (and we didn’t spend the entire conversation talking about the food! Progress!).

Friday meant two things: my second hair appointment, and the Zoo! After class I joined the group of ten who had signed up to ogle animals in the afternoon. We walked through Piccadilly Square, up Regent Street and through Regent Park. Ah, the London Zoo. Best Zoo I’ve ever been too.



All photos were taken by yours truly, camera courtesy of Lauren. Cheers, chica.



Amanda, this is for you:





The great thing about the London Zoo is that a lot of the exhibits are open, as in, you walk into a caged area and see the animals all around you, like Mr. Monkey here. The ropes lined the path and went overhead, and monkeys crawled all over them!



It's...RUFUS!!!



I don't know what this means, but it's got to have some comedic value:



My mother in the morning:



When I saw this bird, I bent down and said, in my best sveedish accent, "Oh, you are GORdeus!" I named him Crupi.



PUMBA!!



My favorites were the Giraffes.



Disney Princess Moment: the lonely giraffe, longing to leave the palace and explore the outside world...



Otteriffic!





And now, to warm the cockels of your heart:







I only saw a fraction of the place, but it was great.

After the zoo, I returned to the salon for one last go at pinkifying my crown. Helas! No dice. Ben had someone print me out a map to the nearest salon supply store and told me of a self-dying product that I could use that would, instead of working into my too-pourus hair, just stick on top of it. I took the paper, bid farewell and began my journey of self-inflicted fluorescence. Dice! I got back to the flat Friday night and began the process of dying my hair pink.



I thought it odd that I had started at the salon and was demoted to the bathroom color, whereas one usually attempts it at home and then submits to the salon for damage control. I stood in our bathroom and combed fuchsia goop into my hair for about half an hour. Kelly, bless her heart, came in and finished the process. After letting it sit, Claire helped me wash it out, head first in the Chokie. The floor of the Chokie now has a lovely, rosy tint. And my hair has more than that!

YES!! YES!!! MY HAIR IS PINK!!! JUST HOW GOD INTENDED!!!!

The great thing about London is that pink hair isn’t that weird. I see someone about once a week with a full head of shocking flamingo hair, and it certainly isn’t the weirdest thing on the street. No one does a double take or stares. (Except for children, but that’s a good thing.) The people I’ve caught gaping? My fellow students! The profs all love it – it’s the kids who are shocked!

Finished Product: (Forgive my artistic liberties)