Three years ago, on my best trip to Switzerland, I spent a lot of time people watching. I was fascinated with their style, their easy-going air, their strollers (which were waaaaay cooler than any strollers I've ever seen in the US), their everything. We all wanted to be them. Or at least, we all wanted to stop sticking out as a group of idiot American tourists as much as we did. But we couldn't help it. 40 trashy looking kids with huge cameras around their necks and huge backpacks on their backs will always stick out no matter how many of them wear their brand new H&M scarves. Anyway, in all of my people watching, I found that there was a high percentage of classy Swiss women who had deep purple hair. I was obsessed. I would tell Ashlee multiple times a day how much I wanted that purple hair. Ashlee would then tell me multiple times a day how stupid I was. And I didn't even care. I ached for it. When I walked past a salon, it was really hard for me to not walk in and just demand it. I don't know how I left that country with my boring brown hair, but I did.
When I returned home, I told my trusted hair cutter allllll about it. He said, "Purple hair? That would be a tragedy!" And all my desires shriveled up. But they didn't die.
Years have passed and I've had a few spontaneous dye-jobs here and there. The memory of that purple hair became a lovely fairy tale that would never come true. I've never been one to consistently color my hair. Brown is brown and I like boring. Boring is just so cheap. But, with a very small amount of recent art-world success, I decided my boring needed less boring and I scheduled a hair appointment with no plans of how it would turn out in my head.
With a scheduling mix up, I didn't get to see my regular hair cutter and was put with his awesome counterpart instead. We discussed the haircut plan-- a lot more layers but keep the length. "But Chad, I NEEEEED a change". Then we moved on to color.
"What were you thinking?" he said.
"Dark, not black, but dark." I replied.
"Hmmmm... let me see your wrist," he said as he moved to kneel in front of me and inspect the coloring of my skin. "What do you think about adding violet?"
My heart starts pounding. This was it! I've waited so many years for a man to kneel in front of me, hold my hand and ask this question.
"Of course I want purple hair! It's all I've ever hoped for!" is exactly what I wanted to scream out. But I didn't. I was like, "Oh, yeah, that's an interesting idea. I kind of do want that..." in my most non-chalant, I'm-really-cool-with-your-really-good-idea voice. And then it was happening. He's mixing it up. He's pouring it on my scalp. And all the time I'm trying to keep conversation but all I could think about was the classy Swiss women. They would be so proud of me right now.
And then it was. The purple hair was real. It was real in the mirror and it was real when I pulled it in front of my face because I didn't believe the mirror. And then I got squeaky. He'd say, "Are you happy with it?" And I'd smile my most excited smile and just squeak. I'm embarrassed of my actions, but I couldn't control it. The purple hair was real.
Sometimes I forget about my purple hair. Sometimes I look in the mirror and it's only black and I look exactly like Wednesday Addams, no different. Sometimes I think, "It's purple. It's really purple. I can't have purple hair, that's ridiculous." And sometimes it's just right. At least for now.
All my love,