I recently went through the very painful transition of cutting my hair. Some of you may not see the significance in this, but to me this experience is all too painful to bare.
Having had my locks massacred at the tender age of 15, my hair has never quite been the same. This traumatic experience left me paralysed with fear every time someone even dare suggest I have a haircut.
Alas, my life went on with me frequently hacking into my hair with the kitchen scissors whilst leaning out of my halls of residence window.
Realising all too late that my hair was not only hideously large but also in complete disarray, I visited a hair salon. Having not had a haircut for many years, I obviously did what anyone would, I cut it all off and dyed it black.
No-one ever tells you that if you make the unwise decision to dye your hair black that you will NEVER be able to dye over it. Yes it might seem pretty obvious to some, but we don't all think with any sort of logic.
Luckily for me, I wasn't afraid of DIY dyeing and quite happily attempted to dye my black hair brown. The result, after bleaching it with peroxide TWICE in a matter of hours, was a beautiful hue of orange. So beautiful, that my mother was too embarrassed to walk with me in the streets until I dyed it a more reasonable shade of carrot.
Now ginger, having had my hair cut short and hating it, I went one further and cut it even shorter, obviously. You cannot imagine the resentment I faced when looking in the mirror every day, I loathed the summer version of myself who decided to cut it all off. It was decided, I had to grow it. This was my sole focus for the next three years. I nurtured my hair, resisting so much as a trim.
Now not only was my hair short but it was once again becoming wider than my hips. Having taken it upon myself to play hairdresser every day of my life since the age of 19, curling and back-combing my hair into oblivion, it's needless to say my hair was on the verge of disaster.
It was pure luck that I made friends with some hairdressers and they gradually and painfully goaded me back into the salon chair. We started off slow, a small trim here, a little less back-combing there. Eventually resulting in my stopping curling my hair. It was time to realise, I will always have straight hair.
So it went on like this for a while, with my resisting the urge to comb my hair into a birds nest on my head. Gradually it recovered the years of abuse, I dyed it brown (my natural colour) and wore it straight. Of course once a hairdresser, always a hairdresser, I still insist on cutting a fringe when the mood takes.
Like all things, we come full circle. Two weeks ago I woke up feeling mad, obsessing with the idea of cutting my hair short. The hair that I have painstakingly watched grow for three years. So like any sane person, I cut it. Forgetting my past hair endeavours for a few days, I was happy.
And just when I thought my mad hair days were over, I was getting the urge to meddle with my hair once more. Having dyed my hair brown as a process of "growing up", and agreeing with my sister-in-law when she said "there comes a time when we can no longer have crazy colours in our hair".
I've turned my back on growing up and waved good-bye to my boring brown locks. For the third time in my life my hair has been pushed to the limits, dyeing it four times in twenty-four hours.
I am now satisfied. I am ginger. I will always backcomb. I am 23. And I am NOT getting old.
Now for a little hair timeline....
