I Thought I Was Going To Dye
Some women today would not dare admit that they colour their hair or cover their greys. And as a blonde, I held out for decades until a hairdresser I frequented years ago told me my blonde was… uh… “mousie”. Might as well rip out a girl’s heart and hand it to her on a plate. The gawl. Mousie hair. How dare he?
But he was right.
My blonde used to be a beautiful, natural platinum colour highlighted with sunshine. I loved it. Over the years is had darkened a little — but let’s just call it rounding out to a more full-bodied, natural mature blonde… which of course I highlight now if only to hold on to a little piece of my youth that still fit.
But where did it all start? In Grace’s basement of course.
Whenever we had sleepovers, someone always seemed to want to have their hair dyed. Before any night in together, a few of us would venture over to the local drug store to find the perfect colour in our price range. Funny how times had changed from our younger days when we used to steal lemons from our parents fridge to “naturally” highlight our hair.
This time, I was the guinea pig; our friend June was going to dye my hair. The blonde colour I chose was very similar to my own because I was somewhat conservative back then. June and I went into the bathroom as five other girls followed, not because this was a monumental moment, but because that’s what girls do — we flock to bathrooms in droves.
I handed my box of Clairol Natural Instincts Light Blonde to June, and she opened to read the instructions. Remember kids, this sounds all mature and stuff for fifteen year-olds, but please note that we also blew up the plastic gloves and slapped each other a bit before using them — because you know, we were cool.
June mixed the ammonia cocktail and I sat backwards on the carpeted toilet lid. We were listening to some awesome tunes and banging to the newly released “Mr Jones” by the Counting Crows as she made her way through my hair. Our friends would pop in and out of the bathroom, giggling and waving around Seventeen’s latest quiz about whether or not our crushes liked us… which, they obviously did, right?!
And then June tapped my head and said — ok, done! — and I set the egg time for 15 minutes.
Although Grace and I were like sisters, June was my bestie, and I trusted her completely with my mane. I loved my mane. No matter how small, insignificant or insecure I felt, I had my Swedish roots on my side displaying glorious vibrant long blonde locks. While my colour was setting, we all decided to Ten-O-Six our faces, put on a peelable cucumber face mask and then make our way to the rec room to pick our spot on the floor to watch a movie.
Then, DING!
June and I ran eagerly into the bathroom. I looked in the mirror and thought, hmmm… that doesn’t look right. But June rushed me to the tub to wash out her masterpiece. I expressed my concern and she said, “let’s just wash it out and blow dry your hair first”. I flipped my head over after drying it upside down, and low and behold, there was a large dark triangle right above my forehead like a spotlight from a search and rescue mission.
WTF????
I looked at June in horror. She missed a small spot at the hairline, but to me it felt like a football field sized portion of the front of my head. She just looked at me and said, “you’ll never notice it if you part your hair in the middle and wear it down for a while…” and then went back to the party.
And we know how long it takes to grow out colour, right? Like a year. And I was an athlete in high school so wearing my hair down was weird because it was always in a ponytail or in a ball cap. If only we could wear hats during class!
Over the following months, I watched my hair grow longer and the triangle grow with it. It got bigger, and bigger and bigger until I noticed one day could be mistaken for Dracula. Lesson learned — if you lighten light blonde hair, it doesn’t fade or wear off like its darker counterparts, it just sits there enjoying the ride.
From that day on, I never let dye touch my head again until that mousie day 15 years later. And you want to know what’s funny about that? Add another 15 years to take us to today and I’m thinking I might not want to dye my hair anymore…
I’m learning to embrace my natural beauty — my body tells a story that I would never want to change. All my scars mean I was fearless, my stretch marks mean I have evolved, my few extra pounds mean I have great friends to share good food and drink with, my traumas are lessons in growth, my memories — good or bad — mean I’m living my best life and my organized baggage means I’m not afraid to face my past and understand that it is part of me, but doesn’t define me.
Learn to be strong yet feminine, beautiful yet fierce, loving to others without compromising your own values, successful yet humble, vulnerable yet a rock and everything in between.
Love,
Patricia
