I dyed my hair. It’s, uh, it’s something else.
To elaborate: I have naturally black hair. It was beautiful hair too, if I may say so myself: soft, shiny, fragrant (except after a game day…), etc. etc. etc. But Wednesday afternoon, I stopped by my friend Katrina’s apartment for a 6 hour date in which she bleached said hair, toned it, and then dyed it over with Manic Panic’s Cotton Candy Pink.
And now I have hair that looks like “strawberry lemonade.” And it’s one of the strangest/best? things I’ve ever done.
I made my way to Sally Beauty Supply about 30 minutes before the deed was to be done, and bought developer, toner, gloves, a mixing bowl, tint brushes, and two pots of MP dye. Afterward, I went over to Katrina’s and proceeded to freak out for a good 10 minutes before she finally calmed me down enough to slather my hair with the first round of bleach.
Total food consumed: a package of dried seaweed, half a box of Junior Cheez Its, a mug of Constant Comment tea. Total media consumed: “Heathers” and most of “Jiro Dreams Of Sushi.” Total chemical burns: luckily, only one!
Still hurt like a motherfucker though.
But yeah. Yeah. YEAH. The craziest thing I’d ever done to my hair before was straighten it, so this was kind of a big step. I had no idea how the bleach was going to look, since this was as DIY as it gets (sitting in a fold up chair in a college apartment kitchen), I had no idea how the dye was going to look on the bleached hair, I had no idea if I’d look good with non-black hair in general.
Basically, I had no idea about anything. There’s nothing quite as thrilling as taking a plunge and not knowing how far off you are from the ground!!! This was some Felix Baumgartner shit, except like hell was I going to let anyone film me shaking and gritting my teeth as the bleach seared my scalp.
Okay, that sounds really bad. It really wasn’t—getting inked is still probably the most painful thing I’ve willingly subjected myself to. There was, however, probably a 10 minute span in which I was praying to my personal pantheon of gods to just please, make the pain stop, sob sob sob, but the overall experience was pretty exciting, especially once the bleaching part was done and I actually had an idea of what my hair was going to look like.
So, yeah. I dyed my hair and I feel like that should mean more than it does to me. But it’s really just a surface change; nothing about me is essentially different, right?
But I want it, I need it, to mean something more. Because otherwise, what the actual fuck am I doing.
Ah, fuck it. Roll with the punches, keep on keeping on, I’ll figure it out in my own time. Yeah. YEAH. I have no idea what I’m doing and that’s totally okay.
No, I know what I’m doing. I know what I want this to mean, what I want to be different. “I needed a change.” From what to what? I’m sick of my complacency but I haven’t made the next step to action. Thoughts, feelings, ideas? In time, in time, and for now, I’m just going to stare back at my reflection in the mirror and voice aloud my very real worries that I have no idea who is looking back.
(Image: Halloween by Sachin Teng)