My Hair Story

Set the scene.  Hair Salon.  Walk in.  Sit down.  I want my hair to be darker but still blonde.  Are you sure?  Yes.  Okay.

3.5 hours later.  Yes, 3.5 hours later and a ridiculous amount of money paid, my hair is glowing gold.  Or orange.  Or blonde.  I don’t know.  If I could break something and scream while not looking like a psycho I totally would right now.  I say, "no, this is not what I wanted." (Was I just mean?  I'm never intentionally mean).  Response?  "I think you’re just being picky, it looks great."

Come home.  Mom: It’s not great, but I’ve seen worse.  You have?  When?  Where was I?  Um humiliated for my past self.  Moving on.  Dad: Your hair looks good, a little orange but good.  How can you use orange and good in the same sentence?  Friend 1: Is that an actual hair color?  Friend 2: It’s bright.  Me: it’s hideous. 

Day 2:  I want it darker and toned down.  "Are you sure you’re going to like it dark?"  "Yes, dark, dark, just get this shit out of my hair.  Did you hear me clearly? I said darker" Okay, if you’re sure.  As I’m sitting in the chair I see someone with glowing platinum blonde hair and a fake tan, and I’m like ew, what do you think, you’re a pageant queen from Texas auditioning to be a country singer?  Vom.  Some people are blonde to just be blonde.

2.5 hours later.  Yes, 2.5 hours.  It’s kind of dark?  No, wait I think I like it.  I like it.  I love it.  I’m obsessed with it.  Wait is it brown?  Or blonde?  I can’t tell.  I don’t know maybe I don’t like it?  Maybe I hate it.  I feel like I’m either going to have a meltdown or hit euphoria.  Maybe it was me, not my hairdresser.  No it was totally him.  Totally him.  But then why am I about to have a breakdown over my hair color?

I mean, yes I’m into clothes and makeup and other material items, but I’m not so vain that I forget about the bigger problems in the world.  I mean I think I'm against Botox. Who throws a tantrum over their hair?  Get a life.  Maybe I should watch that true life episode again where the girl loses all of her hair.  That was pretty traumatic, might make me feel better. 

Then I think, am I really freaking out over my hair or is it something deeper?  No, it’s definitely just my hair.  I mean come on, your hair is like your entire appearance.  Right?  Even Frankenstein probably had a preference over his haircut.  It really makes or breaks you.

There’s a huge bug in my room, which I would normally freak out over, but right now I have no problem smashing it.  I could probably even smash a rat if I had to at the moment.  I mean who can deal with bugs right now?  I have bigger things to freak out about.   Can I join that blonde to just be blonde club?  Because I think I get it now and I think I like it better over there.  Can I stop rambling like a psycho and get a grip?

Then it turns into, “do I have any value if I’m a brunette?”  I mean maybe everyone needs that token blonde person in their life.  Its like I’m always just in between definitions.  Not 100% pretty but not 100% unfortunate looking.  My eyes aren’t blue, but they aren’t quite green.  I’m not smart enough to be super smart but I’m not dumb enough to be dumb.  Blonde was the only thing that was 100% me.  God are these really my thoughts?  Do other people think like this? 

I didn’t realize I was so shallow.  Or crazy for that matter.  But can you really be crazy when you acknowledge the crazy?  I don’t know.  How did my hair color turn into some ridiculous philosophical thought process about identity, and the world, and our roles in life, and starving children in Africa.  I mean if I don’t like it, I can dye it a different color, it's not that serious.

Moral:  Breathe.  Unless its cancer…slap yourself and get a grip.