From the title of this article, you’ve most likely gathered what I will be writing about: hair. Well, at least my hair.
I would like you to imagine something with me:
An itty-bitty baby is born with a slight tuft of hair- that tuft of hair is the blondest of blonde you have seen. Eventually, that baby begins to grow, and so does that tuft of hair. It grows, and grows, and grows- until that little tuft of hair is to the young girl’s waist.
At this point, you might’ve realized that girl is me. If not, well… surprise!
I was born as a tow-head, otherwise known as someone with very light blonde hair. For about nine years of my life, my hair was bleach blonde. This is when hatred for blonde hair began to brew.
Throughout those nine years, without my consent, people loved to touch my hair. I could be walking through the grocery store and suddenly someone would grab my hair- no warning, no consent. Now, as a little girl, I was deeply affected by this. It made me feel as though anyone was allowed to touch me, that they weren’t “supposed” to ask for my permission. I realize now that it wasn’t entirely due to my hair color, but also because of my parents for not speaking up. However, a part of me will always blame it on being a blonde.
As I got older, I started noticing people with dyed hair. And by dyed hair, I mean *funky* colors: blues, greens, rainbow, red- you name it! Considering my unhappiness, an obsession developed in me to dye my hair. This obsession led to a year’s worth of persistent nagging on my part, and resistance whittling down inside my parents. Eventually, I won.
It’s now nine years later- I started out with only dying the tips of my hair, but now I usually dye my whole head. Currently, I have red roots that fade into a very dark brown and I love it!
There’s nothing wrong with keeping your natural color or changing it to something crazy. I just grew up with circumstances that led to bitterness towards my natural hair color.