My mom had to quit her job as a hairdresser after she had my brother and me, and while she’ll always deny it, I truly believe she misses the work. I mean, why else would she use me as her living, experimental doll head for the majority of my childhood? I always had different haircuts, and in the summer after fourth grade, I was given my first highlights. Since then, my hair has been short, long, choppy, black, brown, blonde, orange, pink…nearly every color and cut you could think of. But no matter how much I loved a style, I’d get the insatiable urge to change it two months later. My mom couldn’t keep up.
But for the past two years, my hair has been long and blonde…ish. I went in for highlights a few times, but the change was always subtle. After growing tired of dark dye fading away too quickly, I grew to appreciate my hair for what it was.
Until last weekend. I was sitting in Biology, picking at my split ends and dreading the haircut that would take away that cool, unintentional ombre things I had going on, when I decided I finally wanted to change. Big time. The only color I’d never had was red because I never thought I’d be able to pull it off. But if I wanted to be happy with the change, I’d have to just go for it. So I acted on impulse and bought the dye. My mother had it in my hair by Monday night.
So now I have red hair. And I’m kinda obsessed with it. Other than the fact that I have to adjust my red- and orange-dominated makeup collection, I’m amazed at how well the transition went. I feel like I’ve been building up my wardrobe with the idea that my hair would someday be red in the back of my head the whole time. Maybe I’m secretly psychic. Who knows.
But since I love it so much, I’m afraid to wash my hair. I have color protection shampoo, and whenever I’d dye my hair with a red undertone before, the red would cling to my hair for eternity. Still. I’m paranoid about everything so I’m paranoid about this. I might stock up a collection of dye, you know…just in case.
My hair has been fairly short my entire life. Before my family headed off to Orlando, my grandma convinced me to have my hair chopped off. I looked adorable…because I was roughly four years old. But after awhile, I craved a little change and tried to grow it out. Several times. I always gave up because the odd mullet and mop phases I had to go through before reaching a normal length were unbearable. I stuck with my short ‘do until puberty attacked at the tender age of eleven (I kid you not). My premature awkwardness overwhelmed me. I was no longer cute. So, I tried to grow it out.
I was stuck in the mop phase for at least two years. That’s also when my hair decided it no longer wanted to be naturally straight, so I was essentially sporting a pathetic white kid ‘fro. Once my hair finally reached my shoulders, the Dark Ages hit and I made my mom chop it into all sorts of emo-esque layers. It wasn’t until my sophomore year of high school that I finally decided to let my hair go wild. It’s now approximately boob-length and one layer. I’m not exactly Rapunzel, but this is definitely more hair than I’m used to.
My amber waves of grain have been causing quite a few issues for me lately. I don’t know what to do with them. They tumble into my food, get stuck in my calculator cover (which is very painful, might I add), and end up pressed beneath the heavy strap of my book bag. I’m nearly scalped every day. Not to mention I’ve given up all hopes on styling. It takes too long to straighten but poofs out to the extreme when left natural, so I’ve been relying far too much on those glorious spin pins I purchased at the beginning of summer. Buns are nice and all, but I’d like a little more variety.
So I think I’m going to get a haircut. I’m not going to chop it all off, but I think it’s about time to put in some layers. I’ve been waiting until I hit boob-length. I’ve hit boob-length. Maybe I could convince my mom to do it this weekend. She’s been forcing me to have my hair done professionally for the past couple years, and I hate it. She went to beauty school and can cut her own hair. She can cut mine.
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