With a family full of cosmetologists, I've been known to have almost every hair color of the rainbow at varying lengths.
As I've grown a bit older, the hairdos have stayed a bit more modest and less frequent but during the weekend, I just couldn't help myself.
After a recent Facebook poll — what a fun new feature — it was decided that I should go blonde, really blonde.
I set up the appointment with my personal stylist, Grandpa, who owns a cosmetology school in Iowa.
When the big day came, I arrived promptly at his house to find him still in bed.
What kind of service was this?
Thirty minutes later he had decided it was time for brunch.
"I can't do hair on an empty stomach," was his argument.
Fair enough, wouldn't want to disrupt the flow of color being placed onto my head with a sudden outburst of hunger.
Bellies full from a Pizza Ranch buffet, we headed to the salon.
Not long after, I was seated primed and ready for my summer, bleach blonde debut.
As he started to slather on the lime green peroxide and bleaching sand mixture the room began to get rather hot.
That's a bit unusual.
As it began to feel like ants were taking refuge from the April showers on my scalp I began to question exactly what was going onto my head.
Turns out my skin and scalp aren't too fond of going blonde.
How I hadn't already experienced this in my almost 25 years of being a beauticians granddaughter, I'll never know.
I clenched my teeth and suffered on, that is until about the point that my forehead began to bubble.
As Grandma came to the rescue with a damp cloth and strong lotion, she tackled the skin irritation while grandpa continued his attempt to make me blonde and beautiful.
"I can't go home with a cute new do and a blistered face," I pleaded.
Caped and gloved, Grandpa continued slapping on the goo while Grandma did what grandmas do best, blotted, patted and gently blew on the burning areas of my forehead.
As I paced the floor, trying to ignore the ant parade on my scalp, we watched the clock until I just couldn't take it anymore.
A quick check revealed that I may already be the blonde I was hoping for, but after a dip in the shampoo bowl we were sadly mistaken, unless the Chiquita Banana lady had come back in style.
Post It yellow was just not working.
"Time for plan B, Grandpa."
Opting out of further anguish to my poor, slightly blistered skin and scalp Grandpa reached for the toner.
A few minutes, and another application later, I became Champagne Blonde.
Now there's a thought I could get used to.
After a bit of blow drying, straightening, curling, hair spray and a little of Grandpa's expertise my hair was beginning to take shape, literally.
With a new champagne hue and style to match, the reddening of my forehead had, well for the most part, disappeared and I became ready for summer.