So I did a thing...The Hair Dye Debacle

I've always been an "I can do it myself" kind of person. When I say, "So...I did a thing," the usual reply is, "Oh no...what did you do??" It's not always a bad thing, but I do have a knack for things not quite turning out how I envisioned.

Years ago, before I let the professionals handle it, I decided I needed to color my own hair. I was in my early 40s, and gray hairs were popping up faster than weeds in a church parking lot. At first, I just plucked them, but after a while, it became clear that if I kept at it, I’d end up with a hairline that looked like it was retreating from battle. Time to bring in the chemicals.

I grabbed a box labeled “Medium Golden Brown.” Safe enough, right? Plus, it was a foam formula: less drippy, less messy. In theory only, I assure you! I mixed it up, followed the directions, and started applying. The first application went okay, but when I needed more product from the bottle, things turned into a circus act. With now slippery gloves, trying to pump the bottle was like wrestling a greased pig. What I really needed was an extra set of hands; preferably attached to someone who wouldn’t complain.

I managed to slap on the rest as best I could, and pinned it all up. Sure, I knew some dye had made it onto my skin, but it didn’t look like it was staining. I was wrong.

Seventeen minutes in, I checked the mirror. My forehead now had dark brown fingerprints. My ears were smudged and my neck looked like I’d fallen asleep under a broken spray tan booth. There was even a streak across my nose, which I don’t even remember touching! And my bathroom? Let’s just say Jackson Pollock could’ve taken notes.

Panic set in. I sprinted to the kitchen, grabbed a Clorox wipe, and started scrubbing my face like I was trying to erase a crime scene. Yes, it worked. Also yes, my skin hated me. By the time I rinsed and conditioned, I did have “golden brown” hair, but those tiny baby sideburns? Untouched... sticking straight out like fuzzy gray ears.

So, the final result: hair mostly dyed, face slightly raw, bathroom looking like a toddler’s finger-paint project, and two little gray sideburns winking at the world. Lesson learned. These days, I let a professional handle the battlefield.

Dealing with loss can feel a lot like that hair-dye fiasco. You think you can muscle through it alone, armed with determination and a half-baked plan. You tell yourself, I can fix this, I can cover it, I can manage. But then it leaks into places you didn’t expect, it leaves streaks you can’t wipe away, and it sticks out in small ways that can feel cruel.

The truth is, grief - like hair dye - isn’t meant to be handled solo. It stains. It lingers. It needs care, patience, and yes, sometimes someone else’s steady hands. The “do-it-myself” approach might work for quick fixes, but with grief, it usually leaves you raw and exhausted.

The reality check looks like this: grief isn’t about "hiding the gray." It’s about learning which parts of yourself need covering, which parts need accepting, and when to hand the whole mess to someone who knows what they’re doing. Some days you may need to touch up the rough spots just to face the world, and other days you’ll sit with the strands that show exactly where you’ve been. Neither choice makes you weak; it just makes you human.

Grief isn’t fixed by scrubbing harder or pretending the streaks aren’t there. It’s lived through in trial and error, in the mess that sometimes stains, and in the help you allow yourself to receive along the way. Eventually, what felt like evidence of falling apart can start to look like proof you’re still here.

So if you’re staring at the streaks of loss in your own story, remember that the mess is part of the process. Cry over the stubborn spots if you need to, and invite someone else in when the gloves are too slippery to keep wrestling alone. You don’t have to cover it all, and you don’t have to do it all yourself.