Did you ever decide, before going on a high-visibility business trip to France, that you wanted to feel really chic and great about yourself? Did you ever then book a hair appointment for 36 hours before getting on the plane, and then for some reason think copper highlights sounded like a good idea? Heck, since your son has hair the color of a brand new, shiny penny… shouldn’t copper highlights look great on your brown hair?

Did you ever end up with chunky streaks of red, strongly resembling the yarn on top of Raggedy Ann’s head? Or, to be more accurate, the exact same color as the color of the bush in your back yard you’d been prattling on about all week?

Do you know what really fixes the problem?

Scissors.

I absolutely love red hair.  I love it on my gorgeous son, I love it when it’s totally fake and campy on a hairdresser who changes her color every other week, I love it in all of its fiery orange to strawberry blonde variations. But I don’t like chunky streaks of red in my brown hair.

It wasn’t that bad. The red was somewhat artfully mixed in with dark blonde and warm brunette highlights. And, I’m smart enough about hair color to know that red fades significantly and quickly, more so if I hit the pool a few times in the weeks ahead. But… still.  There was no way I was going on a business trip with chunky streaks of red in my brown hair.

Out came the scissors and the mirror in the freakily warm for November mid-day sun. Huh. Who knew there was that much gray? Who knew it would really feel like my eyes would freeze in that position after staring at the crown of my head in a mirror for an hour? Who knew it was that easy to find - and assassinate - Raggedy Ann red hair in the mid-day sun? Who knew I wouldn’t be bald after artfully removing several million firebush red (and gray! don’t forget the gray!) strands of hair?

Bygones. Thanks to my mess of curls, you can barely tell I hacked off half of my hair! And thanks to several strategic investments in Spandex undergarments, a kick-ass cheap raincoat that looks like a million bucks, and a couple of wrap dresses (Diane Von Furstenberg is a goddess among mere mortals), I am ready to go. Kind of. There’s still the small matter of doing all of this laundry, shoving it all in a suitcase, and actually sleeping through the night so I don’t crash on the Van Wyck on the way to JFK.

But at least I no longer have chunky streaks of red in my brown hair.