I’m not quite done with work for today, but I need to take a break and I haven’t written anything personal in a while. We’re going camping tomorrow through Sunday, so I’m trying to get all of my work done before we leave in the morning. This is proving to be a challenge because I missed most of Monday due to the fact that I was sitting in a salon chair for five hours getting my hair bleached. Yes, bleached. To the horror of all the women in my life who have taught me better, I did in fact spend the entire weekend putting endless amounts of chemicals and creams and more chemicals on my hair—my hair that I’ve spent two years growing out to be long and healthy.
Why did I do this? I do not know. I think I watched back-to-back movies starring Jennifer Lawrence with brown hair in one and blonde in another, and I thought surely I could pull that flawless transition off too.
The first and second bleachings I did myself. Bad idea, I know. And by the time I brought my hair down from fiery red to a funky strawberry blonde with patches of dark brown, I knew it was time to go see a professional. However, I must have still been high on 30 volume developer when I did because instead of asking the kind lady to dye my hair back to a natural brown color I asked her to bleach it again.
So, here I sit—scalp still burning—thinking about my life choices and toying with this concept I’ve developed of being a binge thrill seeker. I have abstained from doing anything to my virgin hair other than putting a temporary, glossy dye on it once or twice, yet in one weekend during my twenty-third year of life I bleached my hair three times. What does this mean for me? What bewildering, impulsive thing will I do in the next twenty-three years? Will I have a Britney-sized meltdown and shave my whole head next time? The possibilities are terrifying.
My hair could be worse, perhaps. And I’m surrounded by nice people who either don’t point out the fact that I went 15 shades lighter overnight or who tell me that they think it looks good. Of course, there’s no way for me to know how anyone really feels about it, and honestly that doesn’t even matter. I bleached my hair for me because I’ve always wanted to try it, and I quickly determined for myself that there’s a reason God made me brunette.
So, while I wait for my precious roots to grow out and anticipate the day I can safely go back to a dark, boring brown hair color, I am blonde.
In other news, Tanner continues to build us gorgeous furniture because he is perfect and knows better than to spend a whole weekend bleaching his hair—choosing to focus instead on more productive pursuits, such as the beautiful kitchen table he just finished making us (see below).
Yes, it’s beautiful, and it was so lovingly made. It’s stuff like this, and the fact that he did this while I was obsessing over my appearance, and he still loves me even though I am a woman with fried blonde hair who obsesses over her appearance, that makes me want to be a better, not-quite-so-foolish person.
Yep, that’s how I feel about that.