About two years ago, I started coveting blonde streaks. I started seeing young women with dark hair and just one or two streaks of blonde. Looked hot. “I could do that,” thought I.
So I bought a home kit and I did it. And it looked kind of cool, but also kind of sloppy and amateurish. And since I also color the rest of my hair, after a while I looked a real mess. When I went to get my hair cut, the woman explained that what I wanted was highlights. I didn’t know I wanted highlights, but I don’t know all the hair language, and she seemed sure.
So the highlights looked great, and everyone complimented me on how attractive and flattering it was, so I thought I was happy with that, and at least now I knew what it was; what the word for it was and how to get it, and that helped.
So I got my highlights touched up maybe three times, and then the fourth time, I came home blonde.
Just. Blonde. And that was a mistake.
But I said I was happy with it, because, y’know, it’s all over the top of your head, and if you like it, it’s much easier to live with.
Fifth time, they look at me and say “Why the hell are you blonde?” And they do process color, which is more or less what you do at home except better, and now I’m back to my auburn, and there’s no blonde.
So I go a really long time without coloring my hair and I notice a gray stripe is growing in. And I think “stripe.” Like a memory reactivated. And I go to the hair place and I say “gray stripe.” And they say, “No, what you want is a blonde stripe,” and I say, “That’s what I want?” and they say “Yes.”
And it turns out, that’s what I wanted all along. It feels so…soothing to finally have what I’ve been seeking.
I learend all sorts of lessons out of this stupid, senseless, banal, and excessively girly experience. This is 100% how I interact with the world. If I can’t articulate what I want, I absolutely believe what people tell me. Even when they’re wrong. Even when they say “highlights” and I want “stripe,” if I don’t have the vocabulary or the expertise, I assume I’m wrong and they’re right.
And then I say I’m happy. Because it really is too painful to say otherwise. This is how I loved my bad tattoo until the very day I had it covered up. This is how I was happily married until the very day I asked for a divorce. And you know what? I don’t even know that it’s wrong. Maybe it’s “denial” which is unhealthy, but maybe it’s acceptance. Maybe it’s making lemonade. Maybe I’d have gone back and demanded that my hair be fixed if I didn’t deny deny deny, but maybe I’d have woken up and looked in the mirror and hated myself. Is that healthy? Maybe I just don’t expect that life is going to come up with better than lemons all that often, and making lemonade is a skill I’ve perfected.
And finally, I learned how easy it is to find safe space. You just have to be heard. If I say stripe, and they hear stripe, I feel…comforted. Soothed. Happy. Being listened to and heard, that’s the key to everything.
