My hair aspires to be more than it is. More often than not I do absolutely nothing with it, so my hair usually skips the chain of command and does what it wants. Sometimes I walk into the bathroom in the morning, screech to a stop against the linoleum, and admire the work my hair did overnight. Shapely textured and correctly folded over a daring part, I can’t help but appreciate the effort. Then my hair sighs softly to itself as I step into the shower and pull it back into the librarian hawtness look. My hair and its efforts does sometimes get a reprieve because I’m lazy and it’s the weekend, and god, who again am I trying to impress?
As I sit here, waiting for the dye to adhere to my head, let me take an embarrassing trip back in time to see where I’ve been.
The lengths I go to…
Let’s take a look at the early years with Exhibit A. This is me at about nine and yes, that is a pink koala shirt, and no, it was not retro-cool, it was completely and utterly dorky. But damn, I was happy. My Mom was completely miffed when these school pictures came back. My lament was that recess was always right before schools pictures and damn, I was not going to sit by the door like all the other girls because they couldn’t mess up their hair or outfit. The monkey bars were emitting their siren song and I had to live – LIVE.
My Mom also kept me in a perpetual Rapunzel look for about 10 years. I was not allowed to cut my hair. She was dealing with repressed childhood hair snippage I think. So I was allowed to have long, flat, and unflattering hair. I started cutting it slowly but surely over the next ten years, trying to sneak in the length, and have not looked back. Except for that one time, when I cut it too short and looked like a man. That’ll teach ya.
So when I get breathy whispers from paramours about my beauty, Exhibit A is the residual self image that blocks any progression of my actual image. This is also where my fear of glasses comes from…*muses* At least at nine I had good skin, in about three years time with no real change in hair dynamics, I added acne to this lovely look. This was oh so lucrative for the socialization department.
Color me crazy…
I was a cute, natural blond. Then I darkened a bit, and now I’m a muddy blonde, light brown depending on my time in the sun. In my early years I never wanted to color my hair anything but crazy colors. I think I was about eleven, in my MiniRaver phase, I started thinking blue hair would be quite awesome. It would be a couple more years yet before I was exposed to anime, so it wasn’t quite that I wanted gravity defining physics to go along with it, just a nice blue to match my eyes and my platform suede electric blue raver boots.
I tried it, naturally, in college. It was excellent the couple days that it lasted. I just recently did the red, which, if anything, only gave me the ability to run in place and ask J, “Who am I?!”
I had an emo black hair phase too which started the actually dark spiral of hair coloring. I have no decent pictures of that time because I took too few. If I can show Exhibit A then just trust me when I say that my black hair was not fit for public blog consumption. I remember J taking the pictures of me and screeching, “I look like my MOTHER!”
I love her, but no girl wants that.
[I want to transition here with a pun about going back to my roots so badly…*clutches self*]
The best hair so far? Short and lightened, bangs slightly too long for my own good. My friend and I share a concept about our hair. We use it to create an image of ourselves that we can completely control. I know that for romantic loss I tend to clip it off; she tends to shave it when she’s feeling out of control. I know that I do feel better when I use it as a place to make changes. I think it’s telling about my personality that only in change am I able to truly see myself.