Financially strapped, this mom of three decided she couldn’t do that much harm by coloring her own hair. After all, she was starting a hip new job. How wrong she was.

"OH no. Oh no," I said as I gazed in the mirror. Again and again I repeated the same two words. Somehow the quiet, maniacal chant kept me from screaming in horror—at the sight of my newly colored hair.

I decided to dye my own hair for economic reasons. I was behind on my bills, and I couldn’t justify expensive highlights from a fancy salon. But I was soon starting a brand-new job in an office populated by the young and hip—and my dark roots and hints of gray would be a dead giveaway that I was no longer one of the cool kids. My youthful coworkers would surely struggle to find common ground, prompting inevitable comments like: "Oh, my mom has a phone like yours. She can’t program it either."

So off to CVS I went for the best highlighting kit my $10 could buy. (Frankly, if they had a home Botox-in-a-box, I would have sprung for that as well.) What I learned is there are things you should never attempt on your own: removing your own gall bladder, filling your own cavity and highlighting your own hair.

But that truth escaped my blissfully ignorant mind as I read the kit instructions: Paint highlights on, wait 90 minutes and voilà. I did think that was coming along. I was not at all prepared for what I saw in the mirror. My hair was already a hideous patchwork of platinum blond and orange clumps with giant white streaks above my ears and dark brown pieces at the ends. OMG.

I quickly washed my hair, hoping the promised sun-kissed look required dry hair for proper effect, and blew it dry. I searched the mirror for improvement. This was when the "Oh no" mantra began.

"No way! What did you do?" my middle daughter, Samantha, asked, horrified. "Mommy made a little mistake with the hair dye," I said, trying to stay calm. "A little mistake! It looks horrible. You can’t go out like that!" she raved, clearly unable to hide her worry that I would embarrass her at her softball game the next day. Within seconds, my youngest, Peyton, said: "You look like a clown, Mommy!" a hint of fear in her voice. Then my husband joined us in the bathroom. "What did you do?" he asked. "Will everyone stop asking me that?" I pleaded. "I dyed my own hair to…save money!"

In the morning light, I thought my hair looked a bit better. I said to Samantha, "Maybe it’s not that bad?" "No. It’s bad—really bad," she countered, snapping me back into reality. A few hours and a couple hundred dollars later, my bad dye job was fixed. The stylist at the salon smirked, "You left it on how long?"

My hair was restored to its natural youthful blond in time for my new job. I made fast friends with my coworkers, and we even went out to lunch on my first day. After I ordered my favorite combo, a Chinese chicken salad and an iced tea, one of them said, laughing, "That’s so funny—that’s just what my mom always gets!" Great.