I guess I should begin with the long-run, short concepted backstory of me wanting to have this beautiful mane of blonde hair. It was taboo to make drastic hair changes in my household until I had taken my senior photos, a “small” request from my mother. I long lived those sixteen years yearning to see blonde or to cut it extremely short. I defied my mother by cutting the most atrocious bangs my sophomore year, to which I quickly sought professional help to fix.
My sister on the left, and me, circa 2014, on the right with those bangs.
Suffice to say, that taboo of hair left me daydreaming of hairstyles up until the moment I could wreck it. Through senior year, I was still a little prudish. The farthest I went with hair was cutting it short (something many mistake as a way for me to fit into the wig of my senior year musical).
My Grandma and I post haircut 2017.
Cutting it short wasn’t enough for me…So, I did it. I followed my dream; I went blonde….Or at least a form of blonde to which the likes of carrots could compare. I was mortified. I kept telling myself that it was blonde. My boyfriend at the time was too kind to reveal to me the truth of the matter. I didn’t become blonde, I became this weird offset of blonde that could be more orange that the former.
Cropped for security reasons. That’s me, the carrot head of senior year. 2017.
Argh! So I did what every frustrated client does when their color wasn’t right, I returned. And I paid twice the amount to get those flourishing blonde locks I wanted.
Band Camp, 2017. My old friend, Chandler, on the right.
Yes, folks, I was blonde. Was I happy? For some time, yes. Blonde was the only color that Monmouth University knew me as. In the latter parts of the semester, my reddish brown reared its scary roots, but that was quickly covered up for a small price of $180 and two hours of labor. I guess it’s the young in me that grew tired of it. Nearly two years I kept up that blonde act as if I was a natural. But, after another reckless indulgence of bangs (which I post with weary and embarrassment), I finally burst.
2018, post mid-life crisis.
Fast forward to me sitting in my dorm, pacing about what to write for HerCampus for the first April 2019 edition, I find myself sparked with this wonderful idea. I don’t want to be blonde. I had temporarily dyed my hair black for a midnight Rocky Horror Picture Show in October, and I loved it. Why don’t I go the complete opposite and dye my hair black? Or at least a dark brown. My roommate, Emilie, and I drove down to Target, picked up the most expensive L’Oréal dye box (8.99) and returned to the dorm. With the help of my newly acclaimed hair stylist, Emilie, the transition began.
I guess we all need those types of college stories. You know, the ones where you have a makeshift hair salon in the middle of your common room with your bath towel draped over a fuzzy folding chair. You can watch in the mirror as your blonde locks slowly began to grab that black and turn from Marilyn Monroe to Morticia Addams. But god, do I not regret a thing. To go from blonde, to dark brown. I don’t want to be corralled into that pen of girls turning beachy blonde for the summer. I want to be unique.
My takeaway: you’ll make many mistakes on the way, but that’s just the training period. Eventually your leaps will be great.