If I had it my way, I’d turn this blog right around and when we got home all I’d write about is my hair. And soup. And Friday Nights Lights fan fiction. And Dawson’s Creek drinking games. But mostly I would talk about my hair.
Who am I kidding? This is nothing but my way. Twelve years of self-amusement (that is not a euphemism for masturbation we all know that’s called practice or chasing the unicorn), why would I change that now?
As you can no doubt see, I got my hair colored today. Greetings to the new brunette and all that. You’re welcome for the shitty facetime picture.
If I could type while holding a mirror and running my fingers through my newly-browned, shiny locks, I totally would. Unlike self-amusement you need two hands for that. I am Narcissus. Check on me in a few days to make sure I have not fallen in love with my own reflection and died because I cannot be separated from the wonder of my brown hair.
It was scary at first. I’ve been some shade of wacky reddish for the better part of twenty years. Granted, for the first decade it was cheap drugstore Ronald McDonald red and for the past decade it’s been pricier subteler shades of Ronald McDonald with occasional hints of chocolate and burgundy. But still, I was the hair dye equivalent of those women who never change their hairstyle after high school. I had become that which I hated.
So now I have brown hair and startle myself whenever I look in the mirror. Part of the startling is the hair-dye stain around the edges of my hair that make me look a little Eddie Munsterish, but most of it because dude, I don’t even look like me. I’ve been transformed into a sleek-haired mysterious brunette. The jury remains out on whether or not brunettes have more fun than fauxredheads. I will report back on that later.