When white people use Inecto

Inecto-black-hair-dye

We used Inecto. It was cheap and blacker than black. Two tubes would do my hair and one tube Warren’s.

There was only one proviso with Inecto—never ever spill it. Like, ever. On your face, on your clothing and especially not on your boyfriend’s parents’ cream lounge carpet.

We decided, at 8pm on a Sunday night, to dye our hair. We decided to do it inside because it was dark outside. We decided to do it in the lounge so we could watch television while we did it.

We placed a carpet under the ad hoc dye station, mainly for my benefit as I am not known for my precision dye skills—a risk when it came to all things Inecto.

Gloves on. Dye ready. We got to it.

“Babe…are you being careful?”

“Yes, yes—calm down. It’s under control.”

Dye. Brush. Dye. Brush. Dye. Brush. Dye. Brush.

Plop.

“Babe…”

“You didn’t…”

“Uh…”

“Babe!—Honestly, ONE THING. Keep the dye off the carpet.”

“When are your parents coming home?”

“I don’t know but we had better clean this up SO fast.”

Sponge and water.

“Crap. It’s spread. How is it BIGGER.”

“What are we going to do?”

Carpet cleaner.

“Does that look cleaner?”

“Maybe if you’re visually impaired.”

“Shit.”

“Now what?”

Scissors.

“If we just cut the black tips of the carpet, it should be okay, right?”.

“You do it.”

“No, you must.”

“But it’s your mess.”

“But it’s your house.”

“Fine.”

Snip-snip-snip.

“That looks better.”

“Let’s stand back and see.”

“LOOK! THE ACTUAL BASE OF THE CARPET IS DYED.”

“Flippen Inecto!”

“It’s not Inecto’s fault…”

“We’re so dead.”

“Maybe I can use some of the engine cleaner that I use for my motocross bike?”

“Will that not, like, strip the carpet?”

“What does that even mean? And we have nothing to lose at this point.”

I stand at the doorway as Warren dashes to the garage like Thor on his way to Ragnarök,  oblivious to the black dye on his hair that’s been developing for far too long and is currently morphing his head into an unremovable Lego-man hair cap. Priorities. He emerges with a spray bottle of carburettor cleaner—our Mjölnir in this Endgame.

Squirt-squirt-squirt.

Waiting…

The black patch vanishes.

“Babe!”

“BABE!”

Next time, we do it outside.

 

Author & Storyteller: Andrea Zanin

Andrea is a writer, wife, mother and dreamer; also the author of this website. She moved to London in 2006 to earn £s, travel, see bands and buy 24-up Dr Martens—which she did, and then ended up staying. Andrea lives in North London with her husband (also a Saffa) and five children. She loves this grand old city but misses her home and wishes her children could say “lekker” (like a South African) and knew what a “khoki” is.

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