Determined to save a few dollars on salon visits, Lily sat down with a towel draped over her shoulders and handed a box of hair dye to her husband. “Randy,” she announced firmly, “today, you’re my stylist.”
Randy squinted at the box of dye as if he were reading a bomb disposal manual. “It says here to apply evenly… but honey, you’ve got more patches than my front lawn.”
“Just brush it on, Picasso,” Lily groaned. “And for heaven’s sake, make sure you don’t miss the roots.”
Randy began dabbing the mixture onto her head, his tongue sticking out in deep concentration. After five minutes of intense labor, he muttered, “Man, this is way harder than painting the backyard shed.”
Lily snapped, “You painted that shed bright orange!”
“And yet, the neighbors admired it,” Randy replied proudly.
When the timer finally dinged, Lily rushed to the nearest mirror to check the results. Her hair was a wild, streaky combination of chestnut, silver, and a vibrant shade that looked suspiciously like a holiday advertisement.
“Randy!” she gasped in absolute horror. “I look like a Starbucks latte gone horribly wrong!”
Randy crossed his arms, admired his handiwork, and smiled:
“Well, look at the bright side, dear… at least now you’re completely seasonal. Perfect for autumn.”
