I had some major age regression going on this weekend.

Firstly, on Friday night, I relived my early 20s by drinking far, far too much after going to see Tommy's band play at The Joint in Hollywood. I had only two apple martinis, but when all you've had to eat all day is a frozen Lean Cuisine dinner, it's enough to propel you past "pleasantly buzzed" straight into "fucked up."

It's been a long time since I've been in a crowded club, feeling dizzy and spinny and trying not to sound like a fool. I was about two stages of sober above the barfing stage: sitting in a bathroom, eyes closed, walls spinning. You know what I mean. It's the point when you have to choose your words verrrrry, verrrry carefully, to disguise the fact that you have no idea what you're talking about. Sucks.

The next morning I asked D, "Did I sound stupid? Could you tell I was drunk?" He said he didn't think so, but he couldn't give me a proper evaluation, as I hardly talked to him all night. So. Hopefully I didn't appear overly foolish, because I really liked the people we were with.

On a brighter note, I got carded at the bar! Woo! They almost didn't let me in, because I had forgotten my I.D. at home in my luggage. That made my day, man.

On Saturday I continued past my early 20s and into my teens. See, I decided it would be a good idea to dye my hair. My hair has been looking kind of blah lately. About eight months ago I dyed my hair black, thinking it would look kind of rich and dark and beautiful against my skin. It looked good (if I do say so myself), if slightly little goth-like, but it seemed appropriate for winter.

As it is now approaching spring, I thought it would be kind of cool to go a little warmer. Perhaps a reddish, auburn sheen. I picked up a bottle of Feria and decided to go for it.

I didn't realize that if you haven't dyed your hair for a while, the growth at the roots, although not drastically different-looking from the bottom of your hair, will absorb dye very, very intensely.

Much more intensely than the bottom of your hair.

I pulled off the towel to discover that the red sheen I desired had manifested as an intense, Bozo-the-Clown red at the top part of my head. The bottom half of my head lacked a red sheen, but had turned an even darker shade of black. It looked like I was wearing a strange, punk-like halo.

This was not the desired effect. Punk-like, I am not.

As I drove to the drugstore to purchase a darker brown dye to counteract the Bozoness, I thought to myself, "How old am I? How is it that I am still having do-it-yourself hair disasters as a grown-ass lady of nearly 30?" I decided that an at-home hair disaster makes one officially 17.

However, despite my hair fiasco, I have been seriously thinking about cutting my own bangs, thus bringing me back to age 14.

At this rate, I'll be a zygote in three weeks.