Brunettes do have more fun

I done dyed my hair dark reddish brown. And I like it.

I used to dye my hair incessantly. And as I have recently been musing on a lot of things, it occurs to me that this says something about who I am and keep forgetting I am, and it is nice to be reminded.

It all started many moons ago. From the time I hit adolescence, I wanted red hair. Actually I probably wanted red hair since I was seven and saw Annie, but I don't recall it being a sticking point until I was in high school. I didn't grow up in the kind of family that would let me goth out like my peers with the Manic Panic, or go to the kind of high school wherein that behavior would be rewarded with less than 10 and 2, or come of age in a time where emo-experimentation was the rule rather than the exception. So, I stayed towheaded throughout four years of high school, aware that it was enough of an accomplishment to have gone from looking like a blonde version of said Little Orphan first day of freshman year (my one and only perm, which I did not want, having naturally curly hair, but was advised by my mom-manager to get instead of the cool assymetrical bob I wanted) to having long curly hair by graduation. The color was a-ok by me so long as I didn't look like a tool.

As a freshie at university, it was all I could do to get my sorry arse to class every morning. I walked around like a bun-head the entire first semester--get up, shower in gross communal dorm bathroom, pile hair atop head, secure with elastic, and go. I have a slide somewhere of me pensive in Spanish class looking like I was being tutored per child labor laws backstage at ABT. Judging from a photo taken the last day of that year, I began to wear it down or half-up, and I can't say it was an improvement over my corps de ballet look.

Sophomore year the long and curly trend continued as it seemed to go best with the frighteningly oversized striped button-down shirts which were my hot-to-trot frat party outfit du jour. Stayed blonde. It was what it was. I was trying on a life I was never meant to live for a while, and the notion of straying from that path was but a heartbeat away. By spring (I love how life is measured in school terms, because it does not involve the word "winter") things were slowly turning out to be different, but I held onto the locks out of fear of going where I wanted to go. What was framing my face--or hiding it from the world--became a foundation on which to slowly start building the me I was supposed to be.

By junior (mints?) time, it was hair today--gone tomorrow. That year was one of the most exhilarating and painful 365 days of my life. I was in love with an unattainable boy who told me I should bob my hair a la Fitzgerald's Berniece and dye it red if I wanted to. The idea that I could actually radically alter my appearance was a novel one. What, he asked, was the big deal? What, I asked myself, indeed? I don't really remember a lot about being that girl, but I do know that she made a clear and bold (for her) decision to change it up. The circumstances of home life that year made this possible--for the first time ever I did not care what my parents would say about pretty much anything I did. And in an interesting side note, the unattainable was attained. Perhaps there was a connection, perhaps not. I do know that one box of Nice'n'Easy and 25 minutes revealed a whole new me. And I rocked the redheaded look for most of that year, enduring sighs and downright insults at the holiday table (from which I subsequently bolted in order to get on with the attaining.) I didn't care. I thought I looked swell, and I know I felt swell. I was rebelling against everything I knew and ever resented and also achieving something I had wanted since belting out "Tomorrow" in the basement circa '85.

Senior year began well. Back to blonde by that fall, I entered the last year of non-reality-based living excited about everything. That year I cut my hair myself into an awesome Reality Bites inspired 'do that made me feel so fucking good, I still remember every snip of the scissors. That was the year I really settled down into being me. Yes, I would change and grow and develop scads over the next decade plus--and my hair would be every shade of the rainbow in the meantime.

Traumatic events often led to a change in appearance. So do acting parts. I moved to California as a barrette-wearing blonde when I was 21. I came back and got dumped and dyed my hair mahogany--it went well with the red-rimmed eyes--I just looked at a picture--I eventually got undumped and for the most part stayed blonde for my twenties, with some dye jobs (including one ill-advised experiment with henna and yak hair extensions) every few years, and lots of growing-it-out-only-to-go-chop-chop again in between. Eventually I decided to stay goldilocked--I thought it was time to settle into me and not be obsessed with switching it up every few months. And it worked. For a long, long time. And for everything else, there was wigs. I went dark again a few years ago because I felt pissed on and pissed off. It was a statement. It was an attempt to make myself as ugly on the outside as I felt I was on the inside. It worked--and after a while I went back to the b. And it was all fine and dandy.

Recently, though, I colored my hair dark, really dark for me, for the first time in about 10 years. And what I have discovered is that, while you can never recapture the hour of splendor in the grass, you can reclaim yourself for yourself--and from yourself--with some Loreal. I know this new look will not last, but there is something refreshing about realizing that the basis for who I am--which was celebrated way (way way) back when with some rebellious cut-and-color action, is still the basis for whom I am now.

It's a bit of a hair-raising situation, to be sure, but as they say on TV, I'm worth it.

Auld Lang Syne

The day after the new year came upon us, I attended a birthday party for some petite ya-yas that featured the four senior partners of the sisterhood empire. At one point the quartet of us was sitting together, laughing our fool heads off at some inappropriate conversation (cause that is how we do) and I looked over to see the baby wandering contentedly in our sphere with happy toddler-style oblivion, and the queen petite in the corner observing the scene--looking at her mom and the sister-wives with a look of sheer delight in her eyes and a big gap-toothed smile on her beautiful face. And I thought, how cool is that. I hope that somehow this is a memory she will always have in her treasure trove of good times. One of four beautiful women who have been best friends for a terribly long time. Members of a sacred tribe who can finish each others' sentences (even when they should keep their mouths shut), who have weathered many storms and all the births and deaths and celebrations and mean reds that accompany such natural wonders, who have been to hell and back and never let go of each other's hands. And that she (and her sister) will be as lucky as we are, to find so many soulmates on this earth to travel through time with.

After the party, I was driving homewards solo and thinking of all that had happened in 2010 and I thought, I want--no, I need--to write it all down. A top-ten list of 2010 that encompasses the best of the best. And as I was running through the magic moments that had brought me here, I found myself crazy-overwhelmed by one steel thread running through it all--that all you need is love. I wasn't thinking about the lack of cash flow that trumped most months, the everyday trauma of car problems and heath issues and family dramas and heartbreak and ennui and work bullshit and the type-A worry about everything and everyone at any given moment throughout the capstone of the first decade of the millennium.

Not at all, even though some if not all of these events were preceded by such petty concerns at one time or another. Once into the breach, however, all I recall is the sheer joy of laughing with people I love, and sharing experiences that enriched us all, and I thought there has never been a time I have not been loved. At least, circa 2010-style.

The list includes two weddings, several productions of theatrical and musical natures, a few va- and stay-cations, a few parties, general hang-time with cool people, a standing date for a miniseries event, and some ballgames. The number of people involved in all these things is staggering--new pals and old (silver and gold), family near and far and ever-expanding, neighborhood peeps, and a healthy sprinkling of puppy dogs and pussy cats and one rescued betta fish. I met some dandy folks in 2010 who made my life so much better. I experienced seismatic changes in relationships that gave me the strength for what lies ahead. And generally speaking, I laughed until I cried over and over again and one hell of a time.

I am glad I am me. I hate that my highs must be balanced by some serious lows, but when I look back on 2010 it isn't the lows that stand out, and the highs seem less momentous than just the norm, the way it is, how we roll. Dancing, laughing, kissing, toasting, cheering, working, talking, cooking, eating, singing, whispering, sunning, sharing, enjoying, sleeping, breathing--essentially, it was a whole lotta loving the one(s) you're with.

So, beginning 2011 surrounded by more of the same was pretty swell. Start as you mean to go on as my dear neighbor R. says. I am going to try. I hope that the new year is a happy one for me and mine.