There was a time in my life where I decided “Hey! I think I want blonde hair!”
When I told my stylist, she looked at me funny and said it would be a good idea to add blondISH highlights and gradually lighten it. I wasn’t having that, I was like “highlights? Hell naw. BLEACH IT BLONDE. NOW!”
She let it be known that she was against this going all blonde thing and I let it be known that I didn’t care because I wanted to be blonde.
A few hours of processing later, I was a Blonde.
I immediately drove to my sister’s house to show her and she was all “THAT LOOKS HORRIBLE!” Her main issue with that it wasn’t really blonde, but kinda orange, much like the color of my skin, which meant that my skin and hair all kind of blended together making me look like a giant stick o’ bronzer.
My sister has an incredibly awesome sense of style and I trust and value her opinion when it comes to matters of hair/fashion. But, I didn’t want to believe her about this because I wanted to be a freakin’ blonde.
Later that day, when I was outside watering the grass, my neighbor -who happened to be the ceraaziest, most hilarious person I’ve ever had the pleasure of living next door to- drove by and looked at me in a way that led me to believe she did NOT like The Blonde.
She walked over and in her crazy way of talking said “What the fuck did you do to your hair? Your hair matches your skin and you look all one color and it’s creeping me out, woman.”
Even though two people had just given me not so positive feedback about The Blonde, I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to believe that my hair looked great and that “Blonde was my color.”
Why? I do not know. But, looking at a bunch of old pictures that I found last night, I realize just HOW RIGHT they were and how BAD IT LOOKED (and these pictures were AFTER I agreed to let my stylist “weave in a little brown”.) and how desperately I wanted to believe that I could pull of blonde hair.