I haven’t seen my natural hair colour in 10 years.
Until I cut all the blue and bleach of out it, ending up with about an inch of dark, ash-blonde fuzz.
The Saga of My Hair has been a long, fascinating story spanning a full decade. When I was in junior high, I decided that I wanted to have blue hair, but my mom strictly forbid it until I was 16 (at which point and since then she’s helped me with it). I didn’t start there, sadly – the first experiment was with Natural Instincts brightest red – but over the years, my hair’s been nearly every colour I could get my hands on. I’ve had white, black, natural brown/red/blonde, fire-engine red, midnight blue, royal blue, turquoise, apple green, ultraviolet, and bubblegum pink.
People always asked my why I did the crazy colours. Am I being a rebel? Sticking it to someone? Trying to be a punk? Trying to be fashionable? Looking for attention? But it’s never been about any of that. Nothing to rebel against, really, and I get plenty of positive attention already. I do it because I think it’s pretty, and, as someone once sagely commented, because my natural hair colour is the only one that doesn’t look right on me.
And now…
Now I’m going to grow it out, healthy and unchemicaled, for a year.
I’m not sure what spurred the change. I think it’s got something to do with laziness. Having to do upkeep on the bleach and the colour in my increasingly-porous hair is pretty time-consuming and can be expensive. Plus, it’s hell on the hair itself – it shouldn’t stretch when it’s wet, yanno? And the length has something to do with it, too, I think. I grew it for a year before the wedding and liked the end result (even if you can’t tell in the pics cos the guy put my hair in a bun!), so I want to see if I can do it again.
But I’ve run into a bit of a brick wall. I’ve had crazy hair for so long that it’s become part of who I am; losing that aspect of my description, of my beauty, is harder for me to cope with than I’d anticipated. Like, I know that it’s part of the reason Mr. Man was/is attracted to me. Now that it’s gone, I find myself feeling extremely vulnerable and worried that he doesn’t think I’m as pretty anymore because I lost that “edginess” (I have the same worry about my piercings, which is why I still have them). When all that damaged hair hit the salon floor, some new idea opened a crack in some of my issues and I’m working on healing it up.
Part of me is going to miss the little old ladies in the supermarket who say, “Your hair is so beautiful. I wish I could dye mine (insert colour here).” And the little kids who excitedly tug on their mommy’s and daddy’s shirts saying “Look at her hair! Can I do that?” in hushed tones. Part of me is going to wonder if I’m less special now because I’m not colourful or funky. If I’m going to become bland on the inside to match what I see on the outside. Part of me is going to feel like my husband doesn’t find me as attractive. That I’m no longer the hot, sexy mess he first lusted after.
But I’ll go forward and iron it all out and work on other ways to be different. And I’ll still be special and I’ll still be sexy without my hair to identify me.
Edited: December 14th, 2009
