Back To My Roots

I am a natural blonde.  No, really.  I have proof:

 

Little me with my Reading Face on. I still have the face.

 

 

It got lighter in the summer and darkened in the winter.  By the time I was eight it no longer changed with the seasons, no matter how much lemon juice my Nana squeezed on my head.  Maybe that’s why I felt such infinity with fish as a child.

My favourite doll was a redheaded kilt-wearing thing of beauty from the ‘International Collection’.  I wanted her hair.  When I was ten, I called my own hair ‘the definition of non-descript’.  The ‘blonder highlights’ my cousin put in when I was eleven just looked fake to me, and actually fried my hair.

I moved to Scotland and wanted red hair, wanted the hair my Grandma had in her graduation photo.  I’ve since been told that it was painted over using ‘artistic licence’.  But it was still my Holy Grail of Hair.  Grandma and my old kilted doll.

So began my relationship with the box/gloves/various hairdressers I really miss.

I’ve always liked the red side of the colour wheel.  Being red has always made me feel more confident.  If I needed a pick-me-up, I would make an appointment to ‘brighten up’.  Four hours later, I emerge from salon with hair that should come with a UV warning.

I’ve been every colour on the chart from chilli to plum and other food colourings, to ’54’ and ‘63’.  Like I said, red shades to me equalled confidence and brightness, easy laughter with an air of mystery.  It also meant £80 and four hours of salon-time every six weeks.  Or two boxes of store-bought colour, gloves, and the help of friends who now know my hair is indeed as thick and stubborn as it looks.

I’ve always thought the time and money and stories and blackmail photos were a good investment.

But I’ve forgotten what my actual colour is.  The one after the roots.  Sarge asked me once, and I couldn’t tell him.  And then I got curious.

And  so, I’ve let my hair go.  This may not be the time to do such a thing, with holiday photo opportunities around the corner.  I’ve decided I don’t care, and I don’t want to chop my hair off and make the roots less ‘noticeable’.  They’re my roots, I like them.

I think I should turn 30 knowing what colour my hair really is these days.  I can be confident and full of laughs no matter what my hair colour is.  However, considering I’ve just written a bunch of words about the state of my head for all to read, I should perhaps work on that air of mystery!

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7 thoughts on “Back To My Roots

  1. My hair was exactly the same! And it stopped changing at about 8, too, so we’ve got something in common as well as the writing and the blogging and the photography and all of that stuff which is, of course, not the reason I’m here in the first place …

  2. I feel you one this one. My hair was a “dirty blonde” when I was growing up. Yeah, just what I wanted to be associated with when I was little…dirt…or being dirty. The prospects of either weren’t too grand. When I hit high school, I began dying my hair on a fairly regular basis. Reds, oranges, dark browns…anything that reminded me of autumn’s rich colours…even plum! I’ve been fairly faithful to the reds though in recent years. So much so, that most people just think I am a redhead. Considering my fair skin and someone freckled complexion, it’s quite believable. I’m glad I’m not the only 30 something who feels the need to remember what her real hair colour is!

  3. Good for you, wanting to know what the true color of your hair is. And it’s good to do it at age thirty, Why thirty, because at thirty two, I started to find a gray hair or two, here and there in my head. My mother would say, don’t pull them, because if you pull one, seven more will grow in. Well they grew in anyway, first a gray streak in the front of my head, and then they came in all over, and that’s when my mother said color your hair, because if you don’t everyone will tell you how beautiful your gray hair is. Now I think my Mother was gray when she was thirty five, and I remember the ice cream man, asking me when I was little, how my Grandmother was? However I must say my Mother never grew old in my eyes because she was always gray. You see I was born when she was thirty five. However your Grandmother had none or very little gray hair, so if you take after her, remember how she looked, and I’m sure you will have the same thick pretty hair.

    1. I found some gray last year, Aunt Nancy! Dad likes to point out new ones on my head everytime he sees me! 🙂

      I love your stories! Thank you for sharing! 🙂

  4. Awesome! I am going back to my roots too, Black/Brown. I cut my hair shorter not only for the return but also because I now have a swimming pool and towel dry hair is so much fun! I am using a rinse to blend in the roots as they grow.

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