I'm sitting in my parents' living room with a purple towel draped around my shoulders, looking down and sniffling as my mother mixes copper hair dye in the other room.
I softly cry because I came to the realization I do not like my recent pixie cut and now I desperately want to dye it. It will help me mourn the absence of my locks.
"Maybe the copper color will distract me from how ridiculous I look with my pixie," I think to myself, as my mom starts coating my hair with the dye.
I am looking forward to having a different hair color, since I always dyed it blonde and only after chopping my hair off did I realize my hair is actually very very brown. A shade of brown that is too serious and dull. I cannot wait to have a brighter hair color. "Maybe it will make my life brighter," I think to myself.
The smell of hair dye floats towards my nostrils and I continue to cry softly because everything seems to be going wrong. I have short hair that I dislike, my hair is a murky brown, and I am mad at how much I care about such trivial details.
After all, hair is just hair!
My mom calmly works the dye into my hair. She does not say anything and lets me cry. I thank her because I know she hates seeing me like this. I'm so sorry you have me as your daughter. I should be thankful for everything I have, including this roof over my head and you, who will do anything for me.
The last time I had a pixie cut I was 14 years old. Before it, my hair ended near my chubby chin. I began wearing makeup. I bought clothes that fit in all the right places. I was figuring out how to be me and a woman. Societal norms do that to you. I got a pixie and I felt like a new person.
I felt badass as I walked down the hallway. The cutest boy in my science class actually spoke to me. "Got a haircut?" he asked.
Is this...flirting? No, it's just small talk.
"I love your hair!" Rebecca said. She was the coolest girl in my class.
I made it.
And now I am in my living room, getting my hair dyed and crying. It's funny how I don't feel badass. I don't feel like myself. What happened to me? Where is my past 14 year old self?
I yearn for that confidence. I want to walk down the hallways of my school and the busy streets of my city and not feel out of place. I want to feel free and happy in my own skin.
I'm confused. Did I really have confidence as a 14 year old? I like to think I did, but I probably was having too much fun to notice that I didn't. As a pre-teen, you don't have much. I did not have responsibilities, the future to worry about, or rent to pay.
Things are different now. The act of cutting my hair is not going to bring me confidence or make my life seem brighter and better. It did make everything better for five minutes, but after that, I am still me. Still insecure and anxious.
Twenty-five minutes pass and I go to the bathroom to rinse out my hair. Tears continue to fall down my face as I lather my hair and watch the dye wash out towards the drain. Maybe it will be different this time.
I dry my hair and look into the mirror.
I am not surprised that it's still me.
Commentaires