Hairy Morning

Oh, my gosh, I’m freaking and feel such dread. What the hay is this nonsense on my head? I can’t go to work, can't enter the office! I will be seen, visible to peers and bosses, be the fool who provided entertainment gossip. God, please, send help, I am stress-nauseous. I do not care about appearing faultless, but I'd rather errantly tuck a dress in my hose and walk through the office cluelessly exposed than have everyone think this is what I choose. I wonder if I should call in with a case of ugly, hire someone to gently, but effectively mug me? Perhaps I'll get pulled and cuffed on the roadside for publicly exposing the ugliest hair ever dyed. Shame a wig class wasn't at business school: "How to Avoid Looking Like the Office Fool." I look like a horrified, horror movie hostess. Even my own mirror is refusing to focus. Here I am, paler than even fresh new snow, with midnight black hair grooving to and fro. My very first dye and, oh my, I could just die! Box said ‘brown’, now I'm so down, I might cry. Universe, please – send a natural disaster, nothing fatal, it's just one repair day I’m after.