The illustrious, miracle product Sun-In, graced the market with it’s presence in 1984. I was in the 6th grade and I was instantly smitten.
I was born a tow-head. I was a glorious, white haired goddess that ruled the world, or at least my immediate surroundings, from the time I sprouted hair. My locks were the focal point of my existence for approximately seven years and then…the change. Within a matter of months, they turned…brown. Not the vampire-worthy black tresses of my friend Esther, or the chestnut-kissed hue of my neighbor Michelle, but something more like the color of something that scurries across the basement floor when it thinks no one is looking. Some may call it dirty blonde. Some may call it…Mouse.
I didn’t have the wherewithal before eleven-years-old to do much to change Mouse. But somewhere in my subconscious, I knew. I knew something vitally important had been lost. My champagne-hued tresses were something of the past. And I knew, even at eleven, that that was a very bad thing. Now, I was stuck with Mouse. No one dyes their hair in middle school. Or so I thought…
When I saw Sun-In on the shelves of my nearest Walgreens, it was the answer to my murky-hued hair prayers. That gorgeous, bright orange package revealed snippets of a white bottle that whispered sweet nothings of a better, happier existence, one with blonder hair. I was enamored. Weekly allowance money was enough to buy me blonde in a bottle. And, the best part was… it wasn’t dye (technically-speaking). So when people like my grandmother started to notice my lighter hair, I wasn’t lying when I said I wasn’t dying it. All I was doing was spraying it with this magical elixir and heating it with my hair dryer. No, I wasn’t dying my hair…
Mouse soon turned to glorious, peroxide-yellow. God, it was indeed, glorious. And so it remained…for twenty-eight years…
Damn, for twenty-eight years I have been dying (ahem, highlighting) my hair…
I recently woke to the realization that my hair is fried, baked, beaten, tired, lifeless, shineless, fatigued, and lifeless (worth repeating). And that is sad. So, at thirty-nine years of age, I have decided to go on a quest. A quest for my natural hair color! They say you go a bit crazy at forty. I am starting my crazy…a year early. And I like it. Every day, I see more of those mousy roots and it is just fine with me. Even in my horror, as my stepdaughter introduced me to snapchat and took my picture with the I-phone camera which has no ability to blend shadows so my stark roots shouted to the intended recipient, I smiled.
It is usually right about now I run screaming to my colorist to blonde me up. But something weird is happening….I am curious as to what color my hair truly is. It would be a shame to leave this planet not knowing that simple truth about myself. Many close to me know I’ve tried my hand at red hair more than once. God, I envy those redheads. I am doubtfully optimistic that my natural color will be that of Julia Roberts or Angie Everhart. But, if nothing else, it will be shiny. For too long it has been lackluster. Just the other day, I commented to myself in the mirror (I am used to talking to myself, being an only child and all) that my hair (dark as it may be) is shiny. That is worth the perseverance of sticking it out on this quest to grow out the blonde and see what is hiding underneath. Hell, I can always call that colorist if I have had enough Mouse. But, I haven’t had enough quite yet. I am intrigued by the shine and the hope. It is hope for healthier hair and maybe, a glimpse of the self I haven’t discovered yet. Who knew roots could be so deep? Well…they are called roots. I make myself laugh.
I will keep you posted, y’all.
Nicely written. The good news is that your not going bald. The really good news is that you’ll look good in any color. The really, really good news is you’ll be your “natural” self. Looking forward to the results.
Love ya