Last night, I had a wild and passionate affair with an old lover.  I had been thinking about him a lot lately and that thinking escalated to action.  I knew exactly where to find him, too, so I drove there.  I walked in the Eckerd, trying to be all cool and self-contained.  I walked aisle after aisle, pretending not to know exactly where to find him, pretending that I didn't want him with every fiber of my being, pretending that my soul wasn't calling out to his with a gutteral cry so primal, so fierce, that it would make the very earth weep.  After a few agonizing moments, I dropped the pretense and strode boldly over to where I knew I would find him.  There he was, in all his glory, just waiting for me... wanting me, but playing it cool....

I couldn't play it cool, though.  I had no defenses for his seductive glances.  I wrapped my arms around him tight and whispered "Hello, Lover.  I've missed you."  He didn't say anything.  He can't.  He's a box of hair dye.

A few years ago, I used to have a ritual that I liked to call "Hair Dye Sunday."  Every three weeks, I'd find a Sunday free of obligations so that I could stay in my pajamas all day and attend to the business of coloring my hair.  I'd buy a nice bottle of wine and a very nice bottle of Clairol Ultress (shade # 11N) and tuck in for the evening.  I'd touch up my roots, I'd have a little drinky and the next morning found me confident, bright-eyed and very, very blonde.  The shades of my hair changed over the years, but the ritual remained the same.  Dying my hair became very sacred "me" time, out of which I emerged renewed, changed, free.  I believe my "ah-ha" moment came when I was going through a hellish divorce and happened to see a sign on a salon that said "Diet and exercise take time.  You could by blonde by tonight!"  I wisely took that as a sign from god.

So last night, I had another of my wonderful Hairdye Sundays.  I chose to dye my hair on the pretense that it was a choice for the play (Trojan Women) that I am doing, but I really just wanted to have the delightful smell of ammonia and change in my nostrils again.  It was like riding a bike, folks.  Your hair never forgets what dying is like.

I have glossy black hair now.  I have to wear a lot of mascara to compensate, but it's cool.  It was nice to know that, after all this time, Clairol hadn't forgotten me.

--Amy Roeder is an improvisor, actor and graduate student out of Athens, Georgia. She loves to hear other people's stories.