There should be a warning label slapped to my forehead before I head to the checkout counter:
DO NOT LET THIS WOMAN COLOR HER OWN HAIR
I never learn.
|Ahhh, to be 17 again|
I'm mildly obsessed with my hair - having frosted, teased, permed (oh sweet Jesus), colored, highlighted, cellophaned, flirting briefly with a Bump-It, long, short, red, blonde, dark brown and yes, green after an unfortunate encounter with an Ash blonde shade over frosted hair in high school. I've spent countless dollars perfecting the carelessly smushy bed-waves that could have been more easily accomplished by simply rolling off my mattress and out the door. Ringlets? Yes, please. But after years of perming my already wavy hair, I walked out with Super Tight curls and never once a ringlet nor corkscrew gracing my head.
So I did what any normal young adult would do - I cut it all off to start over. Yep. I'm a genius. I didn't go crazy, just a nice bowl cut that reminds me now of Vector from Despicable Me. That's right. I was a goddess. Add in my new favorite color of Stoplight Red and I was a walking pencil eraser.
Fast-forward another fifteen years and five children -- I'd let my hair grow out to my bottom, stopped coloring/perming and allowed my naturally auburn hippie roots run free. Angels slept in my pristine locks and visions of shampoo commercials played on loop in my head. This had to stop.
"Hey babe, why don't you ruin your hair by going platinum blonde?" my husband said. Okay, he didn't really say that -- aside from the blonde part.
"No, I gave all that up years ago. I like my natural highlights." Silver glittered in my hair, glinting in the sunlight and blinding pilots overhead.
"I like them too. Here, I bought you this box." Handing me the offending cube, I remembered the joy of experimentation - of not having to explain to my children why Mommy now has streaky hair - of being young and free. No more dark circles under my eyes after endless nights of colicky babies! No more catching sight of myself in the mirror and thinking my mother had snuck in behind me! Oh my god. I'd have perky boobs again. Grabbing the box, I ran to the bathroom and doused myself in chemical goodness. Twenty minutes later, I emerged. Fresh. Staggering brilliant. And slightly orange. Auburn has a memory and it doesn't let go easily.
A year later I've run the gamut of Woodland Creature brown to Blaze o'Glory red. Guess which one I chose today? They never mentioned the pink streaks on the box...
As for the long locks? There's something sinister that lurks in the minds of women right before a newspaper interview or conference where photos will be taken - we suddenly NEED a haircut. A trim turned into a lopping and poof, I was back to sporting a sassy new shoulder-length cut in a matter of minutes.
Just call me Vector.