I lost my virginity today. No, not that virginity. That one is long gone, though not that long gone, and pretty much forgotten. (I know the saying goes that you never forget your first time, but I am living proof that you can, in fact, forget your first time - and it wasn't due to drugs or alcohol or amnesia. I think it happened sometime in 2002. I do remember the who... unfortuantely).
Anyway, I'm talking about my hair. Until today I had completely virgin hair that had never so much as encountered a set of highlights. In high school all girls give themselves box dye jobs at some point, but for some reason I never bothered. It wasn't for lack of angst, and I certainly hadn't resolved my identity. But hair was just something that grew out of my head that had to be dealt with - I was strangely detached from it.
And even after becoming a suscreen addict, a skin care fanatic, a gym rat, and something of a wannabe fashionista, I was still oblivious to my hair. It was there and it wasn't hideous so I happily ignored it.
This year, something changed. My hair was as long as it's ever been, and beautiful, but I was suddenly tired of dragging it around. Literally. Soaking wet it added 5 pounds to the scale, but more than that I was tired of the neck pains and the headaches and the constant tangles. Most of all, I was tired of simply having hair instead of enjoying it, even reveling in it.
So I made an appointment with an upscale award-winning stylist for a makeover, the kind of event that costs as much as a car payment. She was going to cut, but most importantly color, my virginal and very inexperienced hair. For something like this I was willing to spare no expense, having learned since my sexual deflowerment that if you want memorable results, it is always better to go to an expert rather than entrust yourself to a relative novice.
So I have new hair, and -cliche ahead!- I feel like a new woman. At my consultation the stylist listened to me ramble about what I envisioned, and when I came in today she created a look that I can only describe as total sex kitten. Full bangs, long layers, deep rich color...it's hair that you want to look at, that I want to look at, and damn it I can't stop looking at it. I'm obsessed with reflective surfaces, trying to correlate the image I see with me and my idea of myself as a pretty but plain looking girl. It's more shocking than the first time I ran a mile, or fit in size 2 jeans, or went a month without zits.
Change isn't about denying I am but about embracing I can. Whether it's changing your career, changing your realtionships, changing your address...or changing your hair. It goes beyond affirming who you are to seek out who you can be, and surprises everyone, including yourself, with your discoveries.