Chemicals

"You know, as a group hairstylists have the highest incidence of Alzheimer's," my sales rep says to me in his radio-quality voice. Deep and smooth like wood or whiskey. "It's all the exposure to chemicals," he continues.

My hand pauses, lavender bleach spilling over the edge of the scoop into my tint bowl. A tiny "poof" of powder rises upwards and wafts towards my sinuses, and thus my brain, to kill my brain cells one at a time. As if I haven't slaughtered enough already cuddled up next to my bong. "Thanks dude," I answer, leaning away from the bowl and dumping the rest of the bleach into it, squirting developer on top. "That really just made my day."

Minutes later the bleach is creamy and fluffy, looking like a particularly poisonous serving of blueberry pudding in my bowl. Each time my highlight brush leaves some behind on my finger, I swallow and carefully wipe it off, knowing that this touch is nothing compared to the faceful of fumes I get when I open foils that have been under the dryer. And let's not forget the time I nearly lost my eye drilling an acrylic nail in school, or that hair splinter in my heel that throbs when I walk.

My coworker's contact dermatitis is another thing. Forced to relinquish all her makeup and face lotions, to use special shampoo on clients, to wear gloves at all times during any chemical service, and to put up with the itchy cracked skin on her fingers, she suffers both an indignity and a hit to her wallet: she can hardly do color anymore.

I don't want that to happen to me.