When I think about the Universe and the vastness of time. I realize that my hair plays a relatively insignificant role in the shaping of humanity. That being said, in my daily maneuverings it comes into play quite a bit. I have always been experimental with hair. Except that with most experiments comes a degree of learning. I have Been experimenting and NOT learning from my experiments since I could first spell rebellion.

My 7th grade school photo is plagued with a side ponytail separated into three braids. Today I call that hair style the “Fingered Banana” because if you know anything about the science of bananas, they can be separated into a perfect threesome by gently sliding your finger down the center. Because I both wore my hair, and ate my bananas that way, I didn’t have a lot of friends in seventh grade.

Then I shaved my head. When it grew back I died it purple along with father’s bathtub, sink, towels, bathmat, and pillowcases. It is fair to say I embrace change and while I have no interest in white water rafting I am not completely unadventurous. I am however 36 years old. Which is, for those counting, old enough to know better.

I knew I was in trouble the first time I laid my eyes on Candi Kaboom. The day I saw her, in a photo, Her hair was Bleached white with the most spectacular color twisted dreadlocks like psychodelic candy canes manipulated into massive Fraggle rock pigtails. Her bangs were jagged and shades of blue, I’m gonna say lick able. Arguably not for everyone, but I feel like I am supposed to have hair like that on the inside. AND I do mean in a Play Doh hair dresser kind of way, Like inside my skull these thick worms of pungent color are waiting to squeeze out through my head holes.

You can understand my disappointment at the frazzled brown and “premature” grey strands that emerge day after day. ….Then I developed a “Hair concept” from which disaster can only come. It would have to be a great idea for me to abandon the utilitarian napkin and pigtail style that I have masterfully worked into my persona. My hair concept meant that my true self could emerge in full Technicolor glory, and I was excited, almost in a “Manic Panic” one might say.

The concept…a hairstyle called “The separation of church and state” Finally a chance to make a political and fashion statement at the same time. I would set out to Bleach white the section of hair around my forehead and “temple” (That’s the church part)….while leaving the back and sides in a state of emergency (that’s the state part). …the back of my head inadvertently turns into what my mom used to call a “rats nest” whenever I lose my hairbrush. I lose my hairbrush more then anyone I have ever met. The fact that I once found my hair brush under my car in the driveway, should leave one wary of my ability to cut my own bangs.

Cutting ones own bangs. How hard can it be. I was going for a “jagged” look. Kind of punk rock, never mind that there is nothing else punk rock about me, my style being that of sweatpants meets pajamas. Jagged bangs, while not hard to achieve…are very difficult to fix.

Hair Bleach. My hair is dark brown and I am a hypochondriac, which means after ten minutes of hair bleach on my scalp. I am pretty sure that my face is melting. The fumes of hair bleach in my unventilated area are strong enough to lighten my own eye color. I am just hoping to survive my hairstyle at this point. I wash the bleach out and behold the lovely orange yellow triangle on my forehead. I proceed with Blue hair dye. Yes I went to art School and yet I was wholly unprepared for the green grey hair disaster. Not the vibrant candy coated stuff of dreams, but a tangled mess of straggly wilted collard greens. I don’t think of myself as a quitter, so much as a realizer. This is the moment I realized eghhhh, not the best idea…I realized that my brown pigtails hold two rubber bands and a bandanna on my head and that’s just about all you need to McGyver your way out of any situation. That is good enough for me.

I dialed my hairdresser. I had to leave a message, I’m pretty sure she has me flagged in her phone, since then last time I called with an eyebrow emergency, ” help my eyebrows are growing into my hairline.” I like to believe people enjoy squeezing my situations into their hectic schedules. Magically and patiently ( also with humor and the sort of understanding I wish every person held for me) My Hairdresser restores my hair color and straightens out what’s left of my tortured bangs. They now look suspiciously like pants that I grew too tall for. I received two “compliments” about the no longer green hair. ” You look like a well fed Cher” and ” You look like little Lord Faunterloy” needless to say, I’m wearing the bandanna again.

I am so glad that I attempted to tye die my hair to match the peculiar fancies of my soul, to convey my lofty ideals and esoteric whimsy…I am so glad I did it because it made it Perfectly clear to me that I don’t give a rats nest what color my hair is. In attempting to make the outside of my person match the wildness the burns within, (I wonder if I should see someone about my burning insides) I draw the conclusion that self expression and creativity come out of every person differently. My vibrant color needs a different venue, I’m OK with who I am as I am. I forget that all the time. A bad haircut works wonders in reminding you who you are. Everyone should get one now and then.