Who knew I had this color beneath the highlights? The highlights I’ve been getting since my sophomore year in high school. I decided recently that I’m tired of the maintenance. (My hairdresser scolded me last summer for going four months without a touch-up. But I was busy climbing into the Grand Canyon and camping on mountaintops and boogie-boarding in the Atlantic.) And I decided that I needed a more mature look, hence the accompanying cut. The low-point was being mistakenly classified as a high school student while shoe-shopping with my 14-year-old sister. Granted I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, sans make-up with the exception of lip gloss, hair pulled into a pony tail. But c’mon! Ironically, the sales clerk was not yet of legal drinking age, while I’ve been buying six-packs for nearly four years.
I digress. The true transformation is in the color.
I’m not quite a brunette. Is there a word for this new color? Chestnut maybe. Or maple syrup. Whatever you call it, it’s causing double-takes. And compliments. “You look less like a college student,” from my colleague. “It’s your new professional hair,” from my girlfriend. “Your hair looks shinier,” from my sis.
Why did I hold onto those golden locks for so long? To compensate for my blonde moments? To justify my gullibility and tendency to think aloud? Well, that’s me, whether my hair matches a dandelion or the soil from which it grows.
I couldn’t be happier with the new hair and the new confidence it exudes.