Remember when we wrote about our moms and how they usually know best (even if they let us make our own beauty-related mistakes)? Well, in typical fashion, you guys added some amazing Mom-knows-best stories in the comments. And one, by a commenter named Adrienne Angelos, was too good not to share, and to award with one of the two $1,500 Barneys New York gift cards we were giving away in the spirit of Mother's Day. Adrienne: Congrats! NOW, WHAT WILL YOU BE BUYING YOUR AMAZING MOM, HUH, ADRIENNE!? You don't have to answer that. (Our other winner has been notified, and you two will be receiving your goodies soon.) To everyone who didn't win, aren't moms gifts unto themselves? But anyway, Adrienne's story:
I know this is just another hair-dying story, but I think it really shows why my mom's a winner.
I think it all started with an innocent trip to Wal-Mart. (I'm from the Midwest—when you're a teen, everything starts with an innocent trip to Wal-Mart.) My sister, a few months past 16, and I were excited to be out alone and, apparently, it left us feeling grown up. Our newfound maturity directed us down the hair-dye aisle, and we perused the selection until something caught our attention. I can't remember the brand, but the box was glossy and promised “multi-faceted color' and—red flag number one—how could anyone resist the exotic beauty promised by a shade called “Toasted Coconut'? I had to be that girl on the box, smiling and flipping her hair. My sister pulled out her cell phone and called Mom. She was at some church activity, so we thought maybe she'd give in quickly just to get off the phone, but she withstood our begging and pleading. The answer was a definite “No.” This is where the story should end, but if my past is representative of anything, it's that I'm determined to learn all of my life lessons the hard way. I kept at my sister, telling her we could still dye my hair— MY hair was mine to color if I wanted, nevermind that I was 14 and still hadn't mastered color theory as it relates to makeup. Twenty minutes and 20 dollars later, we were out in the Wal-Mart parking lot with the cheapest towel available around my shoulders, laboriously working the cream into my hair with the windows of my sister's '89 Maxima rolled all the way down. While the dye did its thing, we sat and talked, my nervous excitement building. How much trouble would we be in? Or, gasp, would it only be me that would get in trouble? Soon, it was time to rinse. I'm not sure why we didn't just go home at this point. The damage was already done. But teenage decision-making prevailed, and we drove to a small gas station, where I dashed into the bathroom and shoved my head into the sink. I rinsed it out as quickly as I could manage with my head trapped underneath that short faucet, wrapped up my hair turban-style, and dashed back out to the car to head home.
Here's where the real fun starts: I hadn't even looked at myself yet, and I come sauntering in the room to see my unaware dad, reading on the couch. He gives me a strange glance but doesn't think much otherwise. I disappear into my bedroom and my sister quickly follows. We unwrap my hair to see my previously not-really-so-bad mouse-brown hair turned to a predictably GLOWING orange. I immediately see my junior-high social life flash before my eyes. I look utterly ridiculous.
We panicked quietly until my mom came home. I called her sheepishly into her bedroom, where I sat on her bed with my hair hidden under another towel-turban. Without saying a word, I pulled the towel off and collapsed into tears. My mom, saint of all saints, managed not to laugh at my face or even say “I told you so.” She gave me a hug and proceeded to save the day/night/my life. One of her best friends (and my own best friend's mother) was a beautician and she happened to live about two blocks away from us. My mom rang her up, explained my mistake, and convinced this woman to take me down to the parlor at 10 o'clock at night to strip and then re-dye my hair to a more normal shade of brown [pictured above]. We were there past midnight, but school the next day was a breeze—only my female classmates noticed the slight change.
Photos courtesy of Adrienne Angelos (well, courtesy of her mom, actually).