To dye or not to dye: When the decision is literally a matter of life or death

Ah you will, yeah. Go on, go on, go on, go on, go on....

For me, walking into a hairdressers is like walking on to the set of Father Ted.

I’m surrounded by Mrs Doyle’s forcing their wares on me. But instead of a nice cup of tea, what they are pimping is a lot more sinister.

Yes, you’ve guessed it (or maybe not), it’s hair dye. ‘Your hair’s too flat,’ they mock. ‘A colour would really improve the texture of your hair,’ they continue as I politely refuse.

But it’s not that I’m not open to something new. Hell, I’ll give anything a go once. But I have done, and I’ve realised the hard way that I’m extremely allergic. As in ridiculously so.

Let me take you back to the days of my youth. Sunny days, happiness, and lots of lots of hair dye. In fact, I remember at one point I (intentionally) had my hair dyed three different colours at the same time. I was That cool.

Then, one dark and miserable evening, my (trainee hairdresser?) flatmate took out an evil box of black dye (of course it was that colour) to give me my third ‘new’ look that month. I was gorgeous.

At least until I went to sleep and brown ooze began to leak from my scalp. I woke to a filthy pillowcase, an itch I can’t describe, the beginnings of swelling all over my body and a LOT of tears from very red eyes.

I had entered hideous mode in the space of a few hours and my rankness continued to develop despite an emergency 24 hour intravenous drip.

Four weeks of steroids (to combat the allergy) later, I was a beast who couldn’t fit into any of her jeans and wouldn’t want to interact with society anyway as I had scales for skin from head to toe.  (Although I got to keep my hair in fairness)

The hair colour brand in question paid for my leave from work and my visits to a dermatologist who determined that it wasn’t the company's fault. It was official: Louise Kelly, you are now allergic to hair dye.

Years have rolled by and the horrific experience began to fade from memory. The brain has a funny way of playing tricks like that on you, doesn’t it?

But there have been reminders – apart from my friends and family who have begged me not to put them through that month plus of whining again of course.

Just before I went to Dingle a few years ago for an attempt at a half-marathon, I had my eyebrows waxed.  Of course they asked me did I want a dye (‘It’s only a vegetable dye’) but I cleverly declined.

Unbeknownst to me, however, the brush they used over my brows had some gloss on it. I spent the run – and the next three days – moping leakage from my brows so it didn’t run in my eyes. Attractive right?

And yet... and yet... I still hold out hope. Every haircut, every new stylist I repeat my story to, I think that maybe – just maybe – this new product will work.
I’ve passed the age that both my sister and my Mam sprouted grey hair so I am keenly aware that time is ticking on until an awkward predicament arises.
But no matter how much vehemence I pack behind my sordid tale, even the most experienced of colourists just don’t get the extent of my allergy.
Last week, my guy convinced me to have a patch test. ‘Your hair is so dull – it really needs a lift,’ he berated me. Grand so, I’ll be back in a week.
 
And I will do. Today. With a scabby, itchy arm that is only beginning not to look like I scorched it on a hot iron.

In case it’s not obvious from all of the above, I am very open to (relevant) suggestions. Shaving my head is not something I’m willing to go in for though. Yet.