I wasn’t planning on dying my hair when I woke up this morning. In fact, big plans involving a museum, a French café, and a phone conversation with my mother awaited me.
“I try not to remember my twenties,” the petite red head wearing a high ponytail and heels chirps. She’s snipping away at my hair, literally layering the “hell out of it” as I’ve instructed. She glances at her reflection every so often, and I can’t quite tell if she’s happy with what she’s seeing or not.
“When I was twenty eight I cut off all my hair. Yep — went from my waist to above my ears.” She laughs and checks herself again, this time angling her face and admiring her profile.
“Twenty eight is a year of, like, crazy change for everyone, I’m convinced.” She continues with astrological verification for her hypothesis referring to Venus and Carl Jung and the development of modern psychological astrology, but I’m more focused on the brown dye she’s applying all over my blonde hair.
How did I get here? I blink my eyes a few times, tuning out the chirpy hair-dresser who hasn’t seemed to notice I’ve stopped listening.
I trace my steps remembering holiday coffee, looking at random Googled photographs on the internet of brunette women, and conversing with my boyfriend this morning, who looked up at me and said, “How long have we been dating?”
“Um.…” I peer at him and sip. “Eight months,” I say.
“And how long, since dating me, have you talked about going brunette?” he asks me and bites into a blueberry muffin, which crumbs all over the place.
“Since our first date.” I watch a few crumbles spill onto the floor.
“And how long have you wanted to dye your hair brown?” he asks, but with more authority this time. I’m starting to feel like I’m on some witness stand and not at our kitchen island.
“Five years at least,” I remember.
His golden brown eyes shoot over a hard look, and he bites again. He then raises his eyebrows as if to say, “What are you waiting for?”
We sit in silence for the next few minutes when I muster up the courage, grab the phone, and make the appointment.
“You are going to look awesome with dark hair,” the chirpy lady taps my shoulders and hops out of the room while I wait for twenty minutes. This salon is supposed to have a café, although I don’t see a barista anywhere. An assistant sweeping the floors tells me the café’s closed today, and “Sorry about that.”
“And voila!” the hairdresser spins my seat around so I’m facing the mirror like I’m in some eighties movie and yep, this is different.
I have to admit here (because I couldn’t tell her to her face I think out of my own embarrassment), but she didn’t dye it dark enough. I’ll have to come back and make it more of a warm chocolate. But I can say this: I’m definitely not a blonde anymore, and so far it feels awesome.
Maybe I’m going through some predestined crisis that apparently hits everyone at twenty eight, or maybe it’s just time for a change; either way I’m happy, and I’ll find out if blondes really do have more fun.
Alice can be reached at AliceActress@yahoo.com.