I don’t know myself at all.

Gazarnaguine they call it here. Carrot orange. The color of my hair ever since I was born. Admittedly my hair– much like the rest of me– has had a little help from the bottle this last twenty-five years, but still it is apparent to everyone that I am authentically a redhead. Until now that is.

My friend did my hair. She's cut and colored it before, with excellent results. She charges the Armenian equivalent of $10– less than a tenth of the price I regularly paid for the same service in Washington DC. She's good at what she does.

"Do you have my color?" I asked Ani when I stopped by to book an appointment. There is not much call for gazarnaguine hair dye in a land of Kardashian lookalikes, and I wanted to be sure.
"Oh yes" she said airily, but I think that she may have been one or two squirts shy of the usual gingery mix. Now my hair is a gothic shade of beetroot and I don't look like myself at all.

Other people say it is pretty of course– what else can they do?–but I continue to be startled by the stranger I catch sight of in the mirror. She looks like Marian "Bomber" Price and not like me at all. At first I thought make-up would help, but current supplies

only seem to worsen my new Provo prison pallor. Everything I apply blot and reapply is too light and yellowy for my new black Irish looks. Elsa bought me an emerald green top for my birthday. I tried it on pre-hairdo and everyone agreed it was 'shat siroon'– very beautiful. Now the green with the black blood looks like a Halloween horror show. The beetroot demands a complete wardrobe reboot.

"It'll wash out" said Ani sheepishly as she ran the thinning scissors through my layers one last time. "It's dark but it will fade". Meanwhile I need to get used to the new me: black cherry hair and whey curdle skin. Note: a search of Google images reveals that Belfast bogey-woman Marian Price is now a strawberry blonde.

About Liz Barron

US Peace Corps Volunteer in Armenia. Permanent address in Washington DC. Deep roots in Northern Ireland and persistent Belfast accent. Blogger,cook, mother, grandma, Scrabble-player and enthusiastic world traveler.
This entry was posted in Armenia, bad hair day, Beauty, Belfast, clothes, Cross-cultural understanding, Embarrassment, errors of judgement, fashion, fear, friendship, know thyself, Northern Ireland, red head, Terrorism, Women. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to I don’t know myself at all.

  1. Catherine Robson says:

    Integration to a fault 🙂

    From: Marigold Moment To: lrobson1972@yahoo.com Sent: Saturday, August 19, 2017 10:06 AM Subject: [New post] I don’t know myself at all. #yiv2195571923 a:hover {color:red;}#yiv2195571923 a {text-decoration:none;color:#0088cc;}#yiv2195571923 a.yiv2195571923primaryactionlink:link, #yiv2195571923 a.yiv2195571923primaryactionlink:visited {background-color:#2585B2;color:#fff;}#yiv2195571923 a.yiv2195571923primaryactionlink:hover, #yiv2195571923 a.yiv2195571923primaryactionlink:active {background-color:#11729E;color:#fff;}#yiv2195571923 WordPress.com | Liz Barron posted: “Gazarnaguine they call it here. Carrot orange. The color of my hair ever since I was born. Admittedly my hair– much like the rest of me– has had a little help from the bottle this last twenty-five years, but still it is apparent to everyone that I am au” | |

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