My hair has always been my pride and joy. Hairdressers would fawn over how long and thick it was. It was glossy, healthy and an unremarkable shade of light brown. But it never really felt like “me”. As a teen I dyed it purple, pink, red, blue or all four, trying to find the magic shade that would make sense.
Until disaster struck. When I was 18, I damaged my hair so badly with bleach that no colour would stick to it. After I spent two weeks as peroxide Barbie, my hairdresser saved what she could of my hair by dyeing it back to its natural mousy brown colour and chopping a good 14 inches off into a blunt bob. Much to her dismay, again bored with brown I bleached it a week later. It seemed I was in a permanent identity crisis that only a box of bleach could fix.
