When I was young, I changed my hairstyle and colour almost as often as I changed my underwear. I never really gave it a second thought. I wanted a change, out came the scissors or dye bottle. Even if I didn’t like it, I liked it. Because it was different.
It has been a good twenty years now since I have changed my hair, in any way, shape or form. It’s not like I haven’t wanted to, but the process seemed to take on a life of its own. Look at thousands of pictures, ask everyone’s opinion, make appointments, then chicken out. Please, I thought, don’t turn out to be one of those women that still wears their hair and makeup like they did in their twenties. For me, that would have been the eighties. I’ve seen the pictures. What the heck were we all thinking?
Why, when I talk a lot about change on this blog, was this so difficult for me to do. Especially when the decision was not a permanent one. Hair grows back. I’m not stuck with it forever. And geez, how superficial am I that I peg so much of my identity, of my femininity, the way others perceive me on something so frivolous as my hair and outward appearance.
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