You are a man that dyes his hair black. Do you really go to your adult job with that flat black shoepolish late-nineties hardcore "I hang out at the Killtime" hair? Your light brown roots are showing through at the scalp and, well, they make you look like you're balding. You're 30, isn't that look what you're actively trying to avoid? It's even more offensive if those brittle locks have been hit with a flat iron and some type of Garnier product.
Oh great. Now, I'm visualizing you in your bathroom with flimsy rubber gloves on, carefully applying this goop to your head. I can't stop! I'm picturing you clad in a crusty old shirt (in case any of the hair dye spills) with the nozzle to your head, working it in section by section. Now I'm picturing you snapping off the rubber gloves when you're done and setting the timer on your watch for the requisite 15 minutes until you can rinse. Isn't there anything else to read on this train? Why am I still thinking about this?
Here's my unsolicited advice for the day: Step away from the Feria box and let that freedom hair flow in the breeze. And, for fuck's sake, please go back to that soft natural color Mother Nature gave you.