Hair Today . . .
The problem with supreme happiness, if it can be called a problem, is that it makes me want to make instant changes in my life, to push myself forward and become something new. So it occurred to me, towards the end of the rave, that I need to cut off the rest of my hair.
Hair was, for the vast majority of my life, my most immutable feature. I was in anguish when my mother chopped my waist-length hair to shoulder height, when I was six. I had gotten lice and I guess she wanted to make it easier to apply the noxious shampoo-toxins. I caught lice again at summer camp, when I was 12, and I cried hysterically for hours after being notified. I was sure I'd have my lovely spilling-down-my-back locks for only a few more weeks . . . once I returned home my mother would be waiting with the scissors and . . . a blubbery call home proved my terror unfounded, this time.
It's slightly inaccurate to say I haven't had a serious haircut since I was six years old. I had bangs until college, and those needed trimming every few months. The longer hair was trimmed on occasion . . . four or five times, at least. When I was old enough to style my own hair, I kept it in two rigid, no-fuss braids. When I was fifteen, I grew sick enough of the various you're-a-little-kid teasings to make my unchanging hairstyle a single braid. Now people begged to see me with my hair down, but that was less annoying.
In college, I finally changed the style, and eventually, the colour of my hair. Frightened that bleach/dye might make my hair brittle and apt to fall off, I bleached only a strip of hair. It stayed silky and strong, for all of its paleness, and so I dyed it Atomic Turquoise. I had a lock of hair the same colour as Wish Bear's, the Care Bear I slept with. I have a picture to prove it.
I realized that I wouldn't feel like I had done the complete Purchase experience correctly unless I dyed my whole head of hair some bizarre colour. So I spent the bulk of my own graduation party doing the dyeing process and scrubbing the purple-covered tub. My mother was the only one not delighted by my deep purple hair, but I ignored her and spent the day tossing my purple mane at my fellow graduates and all who had come to see us collect our pieces of paper. I was radiant . . . but, alas, purple cream dye only lasts a few weeks.
I think it was three or four years ago that I answered my intense curiousity of what I'd look like with blonde hair. Quite pretty, I thought, so I kept it up. Not avidly: months pass between re-dyeings, so it's most common to see me with at least an inch of dark brown roots. In October of 2001, I think, I had a salon bleach me to a superlight blonde.
It was only this summer that I took scissors to my head and hacked off all the hair in the back/sides of my head. I thought that would be enough, but it feels like a tease. I now have roots that are three inches long on the thin top layer of long hair. I want to cut it, right at the line between light and dark, and then go to a salon and let them neaten up my hackings.
I know I'll miss the warm layer on my ears, but I really am excited about this. I was going to do it today, but I agreed to let Julius have a little more time to get used to the idea. I think I'll do it tomorrow. I'm very eager: it's like the cutting I did in the summer was a trailer, and this'll be the the long-awaited feature presentation. And if I want to see what I look like as a redhead or blackhead or greenhead or whatever else, I won't have to be so impatient waiting for it to grow out. I will have to go get it cut every few months, to keep it neat-looking, but I think that'll be easier than motivating myself to put stinky stuff on my head.
Can't wait can't wait can't wait. I wonder if I'll look as cute as livingdeath. Nah, that's probably impossible. ;)
Hair was, for the vast majority of my life, my most immutable feature. I was in anguish when my mother chopped my waist-length hair to shoulder height, when I was six. I had gotten lice and I guess she wanted to make it easier to apply the noxious shampoo-toxins. I caught lice again at summer camp, when I was 12, and I cried hysterically for hours after being notified. I was sure I'd have my lovely spilling-down-my-back locks for only a few more weeks . . . once I returned home my mother would be waiting with the scissors and . . . a blubbery call home proved my terror unfounded, this time.
It's slightly inaccurate to say I haven't had a serious haircut since I was six years old. I had bangs until college, and those needed trimming every few months. The longer hair was trimmed on occasion . . . four or five times, at least. When I was old enough to style my own hair, I kept it in two rigid, no-fuss braids. When I was fifteen, I grew sick enough of the various you're-a-little-kid teasings to make my unchanging hairstyle a single braid. Now people begged to see me with my hair down, but that was less annoying.
In college, I finally changed the style, and eventually, the colour of my hair. Frightened that bleach/dye might make my hair brittle and apt to fall off, I bleached only a strip of hair. It stayed silky and strong, for all of its paleness, and so I dyed it Atomic Turquoise. I had a lock of hair the same colour as Wish Bear's, the Care Bear I slept with. I have a picture to prove it.
I realized that I wouldn't feel like I had done the complete Purchase experience correctly unless I dyed my whole head of hair some bizarre colour. So I spent the bulk of my own graduation party doing the dyeing process and scrubbing the purple-covered tub. My mother was the only one not delighted by my deep purple hair, but I ignored her and spent the day tossing my purple mane at my fellow graduates and all who had come to see us collect our pieces of paper. I was radiant . . . but, alas, purple cream dye only lasts a few weeks.
I think it was three or four years ago that I answered my intense curiousity of what I'd look like with blonde hair. Quite pretty, I thought, so I kept it up. Not avidly: months pass between re-dyeings, so it's most common to see me with at least an inch of dark brown roots. In October of 2001, I think, I had a salon bleach me to a superlight blonde.
It was only this summer that I took scissors to my head and hacked off all the hair in the back/sides of my head. I thought that would be enough, but it feels like a tease. I now have roots that are three inches long on the thin top layer of long hair. I want to cut it, right at the line between light and dark, and then go to a salon and let them neaten up my hackings.
I know I'll miss the warm layer on my ears, but I really am excited about this. I was going to do it today, but I agreed to let Julius have a little more time to get used to the idea. I think I'll do it tomorrow. I'm very eager: it's like the cutting I did in the summer was a trailer, and this'll be the the long-awaited feature presentation. And if I want to see what I look like as a redhead or blackhead or greenhead or whatever else, I won't have to be so impatient waiting for it to grow out. I will have to go get it cut every few months, to keep it neat-looking, but I think that'll be easier than motivating myself to put stinky stuff on my head.
Can't wait can't wait can't wait. I wonder if I'll look as cute as livingdeath. Nah, that's probably impossible. ;)