“Oh honey, do not contact the colour – that is the kind of hair males are drawn to,” a hairdresser warned as he ran a spherical brush by my lengthy, chocolate-hued hair, leaving it in ribbons round my shoulders. I will by no means pull the set off, I assumed, satisfied. Primary wins once more.
You see: I am a 30-year-old (hair) virgin. And I simply cannot appear to provide it up. I slunk into the white leather-based salon chair, watching my fantasies of golden ombré ends, Jessica Alba “bronde” highlights, and even Katy Perry blue tints float away.
Do not feel dangerous for me. I used to be blessed with a thick, wavy brunette mane (thanks for the genes, Dad!), which I recognize immensely. But it surely left me with a conundrum: to dye or to not dye?
The primary time I ever thought-about coloring it was in center faculty. Jennifer Aniston was on the peak of her ’90s Associates days and each lady needed “The Rachel,” full with face-framing highlights. My mom forbade it. She has struggled with what she describes as skinny, mousy hair. And because of this, she has lived vicariously by my mane, defending each strand on my head as if it have been her personal. Threatening. Bribing. Begging. (You know the way moms may be!) So I by no means took the plunge. By no means dyed a strand. Not even a gloss.