My son wants blue hair. He’s ten. I’ve told him we can try – temporarily.
He wants me to dye my hair as well. But I’m not sure.
Showing up at work with a temporary head of blue hair is not the issue. The issue is me.
Or, as my mother kindly pointed out, someone pushing forty is a bit too old for blue hair. And nobody has a blue rinse anymore.
I always wanted to be the kind of person brave enough to have blue hair. Or bright pink. Ethereal silver. Emerald green.
To do that (unless you’re some kind of cursed princess who can’t get rid of it) seems to require so much courage. The courage that cares nothing for the stares and approbation of others. The courage of someone who is 100% confident in themselves, who they are and what they stand for.
The girl with the blue hair definitely does not wear suits and heals. (But I love wearing suits and heals!) She carries an old backpack, is followed around by a large mongrel dog and plays the guitar in the park, just because she can.
Yeah, so not me. Except for the big dog.
She also has a long-haired boyfriend who writes her poetry and runs along the beach every morning with his shirt off to be close to nature.
She’s probably also at least fifteen years younger than me. If she’s the type who likes to pay the bills, put food on the table and the kids into private school, the long-haired boy is probably not the best bet for the future. Unless of course he’s managing a tech start-up that will one day make millions.
I don’t really think she’s me.
But a part of me really wants to try it. For more than an afternoon.
Maybe she also runs a bookshop somewhere that also sells coffee, cake and pies. Maybe part of me wants to explore that.
Maybe blue hair won’t change anything. But it might tell me something about myself.