Considering until very recently I've been a 'highlight virgin', I was pretty excited when I bounded into my hairdressers ready for my transformation. As I sat there with my eyes squinting and my nose scrunched up, I realised I was probably concentrating more on a few strands of hair than I had recently done in my exams.
After I picked a nice honey shade of brown, I sat there sipping my tea and being my normal, inquisitive self. Or just nosey, whatever you would prefer to call it. We all do it, sneaky glances in our mirror at the person sitting behind us until they look up and catch you staring at their hair (for the love of God WHY would you have it cut like that?) Sometimes we get caught out when they meet our eyes, and in a panic we end up spilling our tea or coffee down our aprons. Clearly I speak from experience, and found myself sat there waiting for my stylist to come back, feeling like a child covered in acrylic paint.
After my hair had been finished, I went to pay and realised I had no money in my account. Could this day really get any worse? So after a phone call to my mother who managed to pay for it, I left, thinking my new hair would last at least a couple of months. Apparently not.
Now I sit here with blonde-verging-on-yellow streaks in my hair, making me look like I've aged about thirty years. Having spent a while debating with myself whether or not to bleach my entire head of hair and try life as a blonde or just dye it back to my natural colour, I've finally admitted to myself my hair will never be the same as Shakira's, nor will it effortlessly cascade over my shoulders like Vanessa Hudgens. I'll just have to learn to love how in the morning it seems to have a mind of its own, and how after being caught in the rain I start to resemble some kind of mushroom.
