Leaving Platinum to the Jewelers: My Pursuit of a Non-Blonde Lifestyle

Some people skydive. Some turn to religion.

I changed my hair.

This habit started approximately two years ago when I was struggling with the worst of college relationships—the pseudo-boyfriend. You know him: you two keep it “chill,” hang out and hook up without the constraint of a title, and you can’t get jealous with any real justification, because you agreed on the untitled title.

This PBF had a tendency to keep his exes around (those who made the cut to fill the actual girlfriend position) and answer their calls at all hours. Including 4:00 in the morning, while sleeping next to me.

Bear in mind that my hair was long for over twenty years. We’re talking perfectly straight, volumeless blonde hair to my waist that guys beg you to keep. Hair that you can’t get back. Knowing this, I walked into the salon and firmly told my stylist what needed to be done.

Chop it.”

I think she almost cried.

The PBF pretended not to notice that I had parted with over six inches. After that, I used it as a metaphor for cutting him out of my life.

After living as an almost-adult for a few months, I felt the need to commemorate my transition period. I noticed one day that my roots were coming in, and it hit me. Bye bye, blondie. I needed to go dark.

My stylist was resistant to change. When it came out only slightly darker blonde than I had been an hour earlier, she didn’t even attempt to fake surprise or hide her relief.

This had to be remedied, but I couldn’t break up with my hairdresser just yet.

For round two, I dragged my stylist to the beauty supply store and selected my own color. I took responsibility for my potential hatred of what was about to happen. No more defending myself against blonde jokes, no more arguing that blondes have more fun. Most importantly, no more bleaching the shit out of my hair.

The second attempt was successful, even though I had a lapse after going out for drinks the night I dyed, and called a friend over at 2:00 AM to force her to tell me I wasn’t an ugly brunette. Overall, however, it was good different. I no longer looked “exotic” in New York. I didn’t look like a tourist. No one thought I was from California.

People seem to respect brunettes more than blondes, a fact that made me a little sad to realize. That being said, I was also (sadly) afraid the hair change might ruin my game. Turns out that hair color does not change your face, body, or personality (So maybe those skinny blonde girls you hate really are just bitches).

My chage even apparently made my eyes stand out. Or maybe that was just a line from a drunk guy. In any case, I wasn’t less desirable, and the color was semi-permanent and would fade out without doing major damage. Huge bonus for the commitment-wary… and much less stressful than a PBF.

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