I have a good friend who has not aged in about 20 years. Literally. If you compare a picture of her from high school and picture of her now, you would be hard pressed to decipher which one is current. The secret? I believe it’s all in the hair. She has not changed her hair. Ever. Not once. She has beautiful, long, naturally curly brown hair. Except for those dark years in junior high when her hair was short and looked more like a poodle curled up on her head, her hair has been perpetually gorgeous. (I will say there has been a few grays sneaking in here and there- which only seems fair to me. You get hair like that, you must deal with some sort of drawback. It’s the cosmos leveling the playing field for the rest of us.)
So I’ve realized that my life could be charted out by my hair- the good, the bad, and the ugly. There was the bowl haircut from my childhood which made me look like Andy from Family Ties, the spiral perm from the early 90s, the Sun-In experience during sophomore year of high school, followed soon after by the failed Rachel of Friends chop, and topped off nicely by a cut that could only be described as being inspired by Demi Moore in G.I. Jane.
Hair must reveal something about our core personalities. I get bored easily. I like to try new things. I’m not too intimidated by the prospect of something not turning out as expected. But I’m still female. I have been known to go to bed with a hat on because I’m so mortified with how my hair looks after trying to tone it myself. (Which, by the way, looks grey.) But just like I get sucked into buying every new workout video because THIS one is gonna be the one that makes me look like Jessica Biel (while Tae Bo, Windsor Pilates, Zumba, and P90X did not), I always get some idea in my head that THIS hair cut/color is going to be THE one. So when my husband fell in love with a shade of pink that was modeled by the bombshell Gwen Stefani, that was all the encouragement I needed. I was going to be pink and perfect and probably a hit singer too.
So I took the picture of Gwen to my stylist and told her of my plans, omitting the part about my impending singing career, to which she replied, “Uh ok… we can do that… but…..” Turns out, if I wanted to be pink, I was going to have to be a stripped down bleach blonde first, which wasn’t a problem for me, because as I said before, this was THE color. But for my stylist, it was a problem. I was going to have to find another stylist, someone with vision, someone with courage, someone who knew as definitively as I did that THIS was the color that was going to change my life.
Fast forward six months and my hair has been bleached to kingdom come and finally, made pink. And as a bonus, I actually really like it. Honestly, completely, truly, I like it. I haven’t worn a hat to bed once. My husband likes it. My dad even likes it. My mom… well, my mom wouldn’t actually look directly at my head at first so to be totally accurate she shouldn’t have an opinion really, but I’m guessing she didn’t approve. (My mom subscribes to the school of thought that if I had never ever colored my hair, plucked my brows, ever wore a lick of makeup, or shaved my legs, I would’ve been just beautiful. What is it about becoming mothers that makes us somewhat delusional?)
But surprise surprise, my life has not changed. While I wanted this hair color to be the magic elixir, it was just an awesome hair color. My singing career is disappointingly stagnant, turns out it was more than just the hair color that separated Gwen and I- who knew?
Now I must end here because Cindy Crawford is selling Meaningful Beauty on TV and I’m thinking this magic French melon is the game changer I’ve been waiting on.
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