Can I please dye my hair?

Can+I+please+dye+my+hair%3F

After I was born, it took three years for my hair to grow.                         

Until it grew in, I was a little peach. Once it did, it was a faint blonde and raised some concern for my black-haired dad and brunette mom. But in time, the true cause was revealed.

I had been given the double-recessive redhead gene. The last time the gene was shown was in my great-great-grandpa on my dad’s side; as the first child, it only increased the obsession over me.

It’s not something I’ve ever wanted to hide; I’ve always loved my hair. The compliments from cashiers, hairstylists, and strangers still bring heat to my face and ears. 

I’m just ready for a change. 

Change has never been my friend, and I struggle to handle major shifts in my life. Each major change in my life has thrown me back into a hole that is hard to claw my way out of. My world becomes scrambled, and I can’t find the key. 

Acclimating to change is an enigmatic endeavor for me, and it always has been.

But, it’s something I want to get better at. 

Dying my hair black would certainly be a change. 

My parents laugh and brush my request off, knowing it’s just that. My friends plead against it and list off reasons I should push this impulse down.

 But these rejections fuel the flame of desire.

Maybe it’s an identity crisis; maybe it boils down to the perils of adolescence.

I’m not sure who I am, but when was I ever? 

Identity is the light switch in a pitch-black room. I have no sense of where I am, but there has to be a goal. 

I’m just here

Acclimating to change is an enigmatic endeavor for me, and it always has been.”

All I can do is fumble around in pursuit of my light switch. My toe might get stubbed a couple of times, and I might find myself tripping over bothersome barricades. But, if I can bumble around for that switch, the sun can twinkle in, and I can stare myself in the eyes and understand my world.

While I’m here—perpetually floundering about—I might as well experience it all. After each adrenaline rush, I crave another. Laughing until I can’t breathe and ignoring my asthmatic lungs crying out for a full breath leaves me with a thirst for more. These experiences lead me closer and closer to flipping that switch.

Even the lowest lows provide the opportunity to sit back and feel. Sometimes you need to lay down on the kitchen floor and just cry with your sad playlist on shuffle. 

I’m not sad; it’s just relieving to let it go. 

These pitfalls are included in my “everything.” These moments are ones of discovery and precisely as essential as my happy ones. 

They are me.

I don’t mean to hide my bourbon-colored hair; I don’t think I could. It’s a piece of my DNA that a bottle of hair dye and some gloves can’t expunge. 

But firstly, it’s what I am. My hair is the inaugural element of my actuality. I’ve endured the ceaseless quips, and I’ve learned to laugh. My roots will sprout again, and the sanguine strands will demand the recognition they receive.

I cherish my auburn hair, and it’s who I am; however, I want to embrace change.

 I can still find myself, even in the chaos.