The Allure of Cheap Hair Products: Hair Diary Part 3. Hens Are Not the Same as Roosters

To recap: Michael, my hairstylist of many years, moved far away. Finding myself bereft and adrift, I dye own hair and vow to never do it again. But it turns out that it's like those vows that you make to yourself not really expecting to keep. It's like the vow I made not to buy a dozen donuts again because Charlie and Husband will each eat one and forget about them (and it was their idea to buy them in the first place) while the rest of the box sits there first tempting, then tantalizing, then downright mocking me. I eat all but the last one and a half donuts (because they're stale at this point and even I have my limits).

Anyway, four months later, Husband gently suggests that my hair's looking a little less than fab; encourages me to give it another go. I use a different brand of dye, different shade. Am happier with the results.

Cut to Sunday. Think I'm getting to be an old hand at this dyeing stuff. Well, I have done it twice now. Go to the drugstore with the top of the old box (very clever). Husband suggests I go even lighter this time (to replicate Michael's results). Sound advice; right (from a guy who goes to SuperCuts)?

So I do. While dyeing hair, get a call from a friend. Would you look at the time. Gotta' go. Now my hair is looking a tad blond-orangeish, "blorange" (which is fine if that's what you want).

The allure of inexpensive hair products got me again. Yes, I'm saving money, but I just can't replicate the lovely natural highlights supplied by Michael. He'd lovingly part sections of my hair, paint the section, then wrap it with foil; pop me under a dryer to bake for a while, give me a lovely wash with scalp massage, then cut my artifically sun-kissed locks.

Later in the day, it's not so bad. I kind of like it. Not the same, but I can deal. I embrace my blorange hair, with its over-the-counter-induced light-blorangish highlights.

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Today we learned that hens are not roosters. Charlie had spent the night with his cousins (his uncle had bravely taken on the task of taking a tween and three teens to Disneyland for the school holiday), so today we drove out to the country (well, country for these parts) to pick him up. His cousins go to a public charter school that's a working farm; a middle school, grades 7 to 9, with 105 students. Very small class sizes. The kids raise animals and grow produce for sale in their store. Charlie's cousin Jennifer is raising a couple of chickens and sells their eggs. She keeps the profit (and even has a couple of her own customers).

So we were a little confused, thinking that some of the hens were roosters. Well, both the hens and roosters had red combs on the tops of their heads and waddles under their chins.

We: "So this is a rooster?"
Brother-in-law: "No, that's a hen."
We: "But this one's a rooster; right?"
Brother-in-law: "No, that's a hen."

And it went on like that for a while.


Is this a hen or a rooster?

Before you go all thinking, "These people don't know the difference between a chicken and a rooster? How pathetic," have you ever really spent time with chickens? It's an easy mistake. The roosters just have more, um, stuff. So now we know.

Note to self: hens are not the same as roosters.

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