Repurpleated

See what I did there? Just made up a new word. Repurpleated. The definition of this word is: having your stylist dump more purple in your hair because it faded out to a chalky, funky lilac that was absolutely hideous.

I reckon this will last a coupletwothree weeks and then I'll just go dark all over until it grows out. I like the purple and all, but the upkeep is turning out to be atrocious. Plus, I'm getting over the purple. Been there, done that.

It's been a trip, though. The kids at Zozer's school are unanimous fans. Every black girl I've met loves it. Found lots of fans on Facebook. Having purple hair has definitely been fun, and I'm glad I did it. Most of the time I forget I have it, and then someone will say something. Or I'll notice that, in the course of a conversation, the person with whom I'm speaking isn't looking me in the eyes, but rather, is looking at the top of my head. I've even had a few people grab my head and bend it down to get a better look. I don't mind. I'm all about sharing the purple.

One of my favorite conversations went like this:
"Giiiiiirl! I like that purple hair!"
"Thanks! I like it, too."
"Your work let you come in like that?"
"I work in a spa with a salon, so not only is it allowed, it's actually encouraged!"
"Girl, that's nice."

The best is hearing other mothers stammer and stutter when, after passing me with their children, the child says, "Mommy? That lady had purple hair! Why did she have purple hair?!"

Fun!