Little Changes

"Well that's one way to lose these walking blue
Diamonds on the soles of her shoes"
 - Diamonds On The Soles Of Her Shoes, by Paul Simon

I'm sitting on my bed in my pajamas, the smell of hair dye tickling my nose. I just dyed my hair, again. I'm going back to brunette after a long stint of being a ginger. Standing in the bathroom earlier wearing thin plastic gloves and running the chemicals through my hair, I thought about how I didn't really worry much about it coming out wrong. Over the past decade, I've kind of fallen in love with changing my hair. I met a girl recently who admitted she had the idea to change the classic style she had kept her whole twenty-something years of life, but was nervous to do so.

I understood, certainly, yet as someone who got their first tattoo on a whim, I can't say I exactly related. 

One of my best friends cuts hair on the side. I once had her cut my long locks to a mid-neck length bob, and loved it. It wasn't even the style so much that I liked, but just changing it up. When it grew longer again, I had her dye my hair red. It was the first time I had dyed my hair, and instead of just trying a box kit I went all the way, having her bleach it before setting the color. My mom has red hair, and I (as many of my siblings) inherited her freckles, so I always felt like I could be a red head at heart. I kept up the color for about a year and a half until I planned to move overseas and learn Spanish. Then I dyed my hair back to it's original brown and let it grow in naturally. Until about a year later when I was settled in Ecuador. That first year, I was back at a salon, explaining in Spanish to the stylist that I wanted him to bleach the ends and dye them blue. 

I stand by the belief that if you ever want to do something funky with your hair, like dye it an unnatural color or buzz one side, then by all means do it. Life is too short to worry about something like your hair, which always grows back! Having blue hair was so much fun. It felt brave and poetic, like I was a character from a story. I was the girl walking down the street with blue hair, the one you wondered why she did it, what her story was. At least that's what I personally think when I see people with unusual hair choices. I kept the blue until it faded to green after a trip to the beach, then I dyed the ends purple. When that faded, it was back to the natural brown for quite some time. After that, the boldest move yet was to get a pixie cut, donating a total of 13 inches to Locks Of Love. 

I admit: I cried the day after I had it cut. It was a loss, strange and great, but then I got over it. Slowly, I felt empowered by having short hair. I was still pretty without long hair, and short was so easy to maintain! All my life I had woken up with horrendous bed head that required a shower, some product, or at least a severe pulling back before it was presentable, but with short hair suddenly I could just comb and go. No worries about a bad hair day; it was short and that was it. I kept it trimmed neatly at the nape of my neck for six months, then let it grow once more. 

After exactly a year of letting it grow out, I went back to red. No fanfare, no asking anyone's opinion except for my roommate. Just buy the kit and stand in my bathroom, dying it twice in a week to get my dark hair to be the brighter shade I was going for. 

The truth is, I like my hair because I can change it. There are so many things I can't change: my height, the bone structure of my face, or other innate things about who I am, but I can change my hair. I can change it, knowing that it can always go back to how it was or that I can change it again and again. Whenever I need a new look, it's easier to change than my wardrobe or my personality (and better than trying to change the latter, can you imagine what people would do if I morphed into a rocker chick or a bookish shy girl anytime I wanted something new?). For some people, it's a big deal. It's brave. For me, there are so many other things which scare me; some things I know I should face, and others I do. My hair isn't one of them.

The timer in my phone goes off. In a moment I'll rinse the dye from my hair. I'll look in the mirror and see the new color. Even if I happen to have an Anne Of Green Gables moment (green hair, instead of her dreamed-of raven black) I think it will be okay.
I can always keep changing it, and I likely will.