Vanity and insecurity: my motivations. A factor: my age. Seeing my picture in the paper: my devastation. There was no way my hair was that brown. I was a blonde. I am a blonde. It is funny how hair color really does define a person. I’m no different than any other woman. For me, blonde wasn’t dumb. Blond was beauty. I had been that blonde haired girl since my youth, and even though my lovely locks had slowly faded over time, my image of myself hadn’t. Then I opened the paper and saw my larger-than-life image of very brown hair. Shattered.
I rationalized that it was the lighting that caused this debacle. At Zumba a gal came over to congratulate me on the article she had read in the local newspaper, Brownsville Times, about my book release of Just Moms, and then remarked, “I almost didn’t think it was you. Your hair looked so brown in that picture.” And then instead of the conversations being about Just Moms, it became about my hair. Should I highlight it? Did she think of me as a blonde? Really? So, you don’t think of me as having brown hair? But that picture? It was so dark in that picture.
Even though many reassured me that my hair was still in the spectrum of being blonde, my confidence had been shaken. The last time I had tried to highlight my hair was six years ago when I convinced my husband to pull my hairs through that home-coloring-cap. He pulled way too many through and then, to make sure it really took hold, I kept the deadly chemicals on twice as long as I should have. I was still pretty scared from that horror show, and so had decided I would be all-natural from there on out.
But that newspaper picture? It was so bad. So blatantly not blonde. I took the plunge. Made an appointment. Refused to ask how much it would cost, so that I wouldn’t back out, and drove myself to the hands of a professional---eager for the hair of my youth.
“So basically, I want to walk out of here and know that you did something to my hair, but I also don’t want to walk out looking like a floozy.” My stylist knew exactly what I wanted. She delivered.
After my hair was all dried, cut, and styled I felt like the most beautiful girl in the world. It was me staring back at me in the mirror, not that stranger from the paper. There was Rebekah, the Rebekah I had always known and loved. No one could mistake that for brown. I smiled, “Perfect. It looks like I just experienced the full month of August!”
I walked with confidence back to the mom-mini-van and caught my sexy reflection in a storefront window! Oh yeah! Check me out!
This new dependence and appreciation of something not natural is a big step for me. I’m the girl, who at 33, still does not have her ears pierced. Never had a cavity. Still have my tonsils and appendix. Only think make-up looks good if you can’t actually tell I have it on. I gave up on tans years ago, and instead cheer on my summer glow of freckles. Still, I’m pretty sure I’ll never go back to drab winter hair ever again. I found myself, in a bottle, and it’s all good.