This happens every fall. The leaves start to change, the air crisps up, and I think “Hey, those leaves are sure pretty orange! I think my hair should be just as pretty!” and I once again foolishly forget the ability to produce orange-haired offspring is not akin to looking good with orange hair oneself. You think I’d get it by now… but no.

This is what I imagine. Lovely ginger hair, matching my sons’ lovely copper haystacks, festive and pretty for my favorite season. Every time. I’m like Charlie Brown trying to kick the dang football from Lucy…

I eagerly run to the drugstore and purchase a box of autumnal auburn, lie to myself about how great it will look (leaves! fall! warm and pretty!) and dump the contents on my head.

And this, without fail, is what I get. Mo can do pretty red hair. Merida has lovely orange curls. Riversong, for heaven’s sake, my doppelganger! has ginger ringlets. Really, this should work, right?! This is my inner dialogue with the advent of each autumnal equinox (happy fall, by the way- yay!) And yet… still…

Now I’m not afraid of playing with my hair— it’s just dye, right?! Yeah, right. Two trips to CVS, one to Walgreens and one to Target later… the hideous orange is mostly tamed. No, I didn’t allow any pictures taken in the 12 hours I looked like a pumpkin. I do have some vanity…

A drabbing down with some ash, a layer of blonde, and then lifting some highlights, and I have my regular color back. Next year, can someone remind me, oh… around September 1st… to just stay the crap away from the haircolor aisle?