I have dyed my hair this morning with a new dye kit from eSalon. I switched from Madison Reed because apparently it makes your hair fall out and there is a lawsuit.
The hair did not take the dye. It’s so bad that Gordon asked me what happened.
I might have to wait a couple of weeks and then go to an actual salon to have it fixed. Woe is me. I sit here with a mess on my head.
Update: Gordon says it looks better now that it is fully dry.
In light of this tragic tragedy, here is a dye-related snippet.
“Raise your arms, my lady,” Clover said. It sounded like an order, and “my lady” was clearly tacked on.
The gown I wore flowed over me in delicate folds. It was breathtakingly beautiful, with a luxuriously full skirt, long sleeves, and delicate embroidery. It floated as I walked, fit me well, and was perfect in every way except one: it was a ghastly greenish yellow. It was probably some sort of fancy shade of chartreuse, but the color was less French liquor and more diarrhea slime.
A shop assistant held up a large mirror so I could see myself. Yep, I was the prettiest digestive upset princess ever.
Clover pursed her lips. “Ekgelin family?”
The shop owner, a woman in her early forties in an impeccably fitted blue gown, nodded. “A wedding fell apart. I was told to burn it, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
Clover pondered the dress. If she concentrated any harder, my gown would catch on fire.
Making the kind of dress I needed for the joedurar in 10 days was impossible. Our only option was to purchase one and alter it. We had spent the whole day taking the carriage from one dress making shop to the next. The unfortunate gown wasn’t just our best option. It was our only option. Attending the dance in one of my regular gowns was out of the question. I might as well show up in a bean sack.
“Do you think it will take the dye?” Clover asked.
The owner frowned. “It should. Although I cannot guarantee it. We had to soak it for three days in a vat of goseweed to get this shade. The dye is very saturated.”
“I was thinking cantolin powder,” Clover said.
“Hot or cold?”
“Hot, then cold set with vinegar and a dash of burgundy dust.”
“To counteract the undertone?”
The two women peered at me.
“The embroidery is gold thread,” the shop owner said. “It should hold.”
I cleared my throat. “Tresses?”
They looked at me.
“Can I put my arms down?”
Clover turned red. “Of course, my lady.”
Oh good. Actually, I could’ve held out longer. My arms weren’t that tired. All of that daily stabbing must be paying off.
“I will let it go for half a grent,” the shop owner said.
Clover gasped. “25 nomas? For a dress that should be burned?”
“This is Olvian silk!”
“In a hideous color! For all we know, the dye will eat holes in it. And since they told you to burn it, you were already paid for it.”
“23. The embroidery alone took a month.”
“15. The embroidery is gold which doesn’t even fit our family colors.”
“Meet me at 19 or leave,” the shop owner ground out.
Clover raised her chin. “19 it is.”
“We’ll take it,” I told the dress shop owner. “Thank you for your help. It will not be forgotten.”
The owner smiled at me. “Yes, my lady.”
Ten minutes later, we exited the shop with the dress securely wrapped in a fat roll of canvas. Clover had counted out the coins and took it with a sour face.
Outside Will and Lute flanked us. In Reynald’s absence, Gort had insisted that both of his sons guarded me at all times outside the walls.
We walked for about half a block when Clover broke into a brilliant smile. “It’s a 2 grent dress and we got it for 19 nomas. Let’s go fast before someone arrests me for this robbery.”
She hugged the bundle to her.
I didn’t have the heart to ask her what would happen if the dress failed to take the dye.