The best advice I received in high school was: “Stop messing with your hair.” After a night of self-streaking my long brown locks with Jolen mustache bleach my 10th grade social studies teacher approached me in the hallway and uttered those words, unsolicited, and then stealthily walked away satisfied with his mission.
A few months later that same man came up to me after I’d exited the stage from a student fashion show. “You looked so scared up there,” he said. I was and in retrospect had every right to be, teetering down a narrow runway in a minuscule purple pleather mini skirt and three inch Steve Madden white platform heels, 1997’s best. “You don’t ever have to be afraid.”
Why do I still not listen to this man.
…When I came into view in the bathroom mirror this morning, my first reaction was: Oh god, my hair is bad!
It’s kind of orange again, with some dark roots, and not a cool, umber, dark-to-light sun kissed look. No. This is orange, with roots.
I called my swanky hair salon and when a man named Tim answered, and let’s all take a minute here to visualize Tim, he said, “Hi! How can I help you?”
I said, “I have bad hair.”
“Oh I’m not kidding, Tim,” and I went on to relay the saga of my hair, terrible at maintenance, been coloring it forever, blah blah blah…
Don’t start messing with your hair, babies.
It’s so dumb.
Hair is a filament that grows from the skin of humans and animals, and I used to spend $365 dollars on it at my old colorist in NYC. Sometimes $420 if I’d get a glaze, like my hair is a donut.
I mean really, dumb.
I did not listen to my wise teacher.
I implore you as teenagers to listen to me: You are beautiful the way you are. Stop…stop…