When I was fourteen I dyed my beautiful strawberry-blonde hair black. I was a mod, I thought I was cool. I had no one to help me but a male friend who also wanted to color his hair.
We used the same bottle for both of us, he did mine first, then I used the rest to do his. Neither of us had a clue what we were doing, nonetheless . . .
His hair, a slightly darker blonde than mine, came out a beautiful rich blue-black which looked great on him. (He had naturally black eyebrows to begin with). It looked so good several people thought it was natural.
Mine was horrible. I woke up the next morning, looked in the mirror and started to cry. It was dull black, with patches of streaky gray. I had forgotten what we had done, and in the light of day it was just . . . awful. Let me be frank: it looked like shit. His mom felt sorry for me, so we waited the recommended two full weeks, (during which time, I became bandanna girl), and she redyed it for me, this time including (duh!) my almost non-existant blonde eyebrows. Then at least it was uniform black, but it still didn’t look good with my pale skin and freckles.
The worst part is, when I was growing it out, we had a little activity in Science class where you had to look at different things under a microscope. They told us to pull out one of our hairs, double it over itself, and then look at the Xed part under the microscope. I doubled a dyed end over a part that had grown out. At first I couldn’t even tell what I was looking at. One arm of the X was smooth, golden, translucent, glowing in the light shining from beneath it, the other was opaque, charred looking, dingy gray, with the texture of a burnt log. I couldn’t believe I had done that to my hair. On purpose!
Oh, and to add insult to injury, my hair never did grow back the same color. sigh It’s now more of a dark, dishwater blonde, although still with red highlights.