I got my hair done yesterday. For whatever reason, it was one of the painfully non-essential things I decided was very essential that I must take care of before Thursday. Really, how embarrassing would it be for me to be lying there on the table with an inch of roots not to mention split ends and major unevenness in my layering because I impulsively took a stab at trimming it myself last week? (Please. I am nothing if not civilized.) So … I called my favorite husband and wife hair rescue team (Hi, B & N, if you’re reading!) and they were able to work me into their always busy schedules.
I should point out that, while I truly have no issues with grey (yet!), I do color my hair … prolifically. Yesterday, we took out numerous pink streaks and went for more of an all-over red. Well, two all-over reds, really. A brighter, Sangria-ish one on top and a plummy Burgundy one underneath. My hair is my palette and, unlike a tattoo, no craziness I do to it will ever be permanent. Anyway, just as I was wrapping up with B, he mentioned that I should avoid all white towels around my hair for a while. Having colored my hair on and off since I was a teenager, I am no stranger to the staining effects that hair color, especially RED, can have on light-colored towels, sheets, necklines of clothing, etc.
But I bet not everyone at the hospital knows about this mysterious phenomenon.
What if my freshly-colored tresses leach out onto my hospital pillowcase? And what if it doesn’t happen until the surgery is underway and I can’t speak for myself? And then one of the nurses spots the red discoloration on the pillow … and mistakes it for blood … and thinks that my brain is hemorrhaging. And then the doctor yells out “Code Blue! Get me a neurologist. Stat!” … who of course will not be able to explain the ‘bleeding’ … and will announce that he needs to “take over this OR” for his surgical team. And then the two doctors will start arguing over “whose damned OR it is.” And, by then, my anesthesia will likely have worn off … just as one or both of them start coming at me with a scalpel. And I’ll be all “Wait, dudes! It’s not blood. It’s plummy Sangria hair dye!” And they’d be like “You don’t know what you’re talking about, crazy woman! Your brain is bleeding.” At which point, I’ll have to try to make a run for it to flee the lunacy of the OR and a very unwanted brain surgery. But, knowing me, I’ll trip over my loose gown ties that I cavalierly left undone earlier that morning thinking “What am I afraid of … that I might try to jump up from the table and run out of the OR? Sheesh!” Which, ironically, is exactly the story I’ll have to tell the next doctor I now need to see to tend to the injuries I sustained from the whole flight-from-the-OR-over-a-blood/hair-dye-mix-up.
Maybe I should just wash my hair a few times before Thursday to cut down on the possibility of the above catastrophe becoming a reality.
What?!!? It could happen.