Blame my tween for my annoying use of “Instagram-speak.” Between my “FLEEK” references and my “Yassssss! Kill ’em!” exclamations, it’s no wonder that my latest identity-crisis folly involved a trip to my stylist to dye my hair blue. I typically go to her for highlights to cover my gray (yes, it’s bad) and I’ve been getting golden streaks for the past year or so. But on Halloween I strutted into the salon, plopped down on her consult couch and announced that I wanted to tint my hair blue. She looked at me like I had lost my mind. “BLUE? You? Why BLUE?” And I explained to her that I wanted something funky and different and something that would snap me out of the Suburban Mommy grind. That’s when she hit me with: “Blue is my favorite color! I love it. I just didn’t know you were that much of a rockstar, that’s all.”
Honey. You betta’ ask somebody.
I thought it was funny that when the stylist next to mine asked what color I was getting and I said: “Blue!” He said: “I know that’s right!” It was almost like, because he didn’t already know me, like my stylist did, blue made perfect sense. But to those who do know me, I got alllll the skepticism.
And about 3 hours of lightening, then highlighting, then washing, then blowdrying, then re-highlighting missed spots, then washing and blowdrying again, I had my head full of blue panels. And I was in love. I’ve gotten nothing but compliments, and in fact, the color is not entirely obvious at all times, which is nice. I found myself a little self-conscious heading to my daughter’s Catholic school parent-teacher conference right after my hair appointment and then the next morning at Chik-Fil-A, where I could have sworn I getting unusual stares. But I’ve since fully embraced my fun-colored locks (and, quite possibly, my one-third-life crisis).
Living Richly Recommendation No. 2: Don’t Be Afraid to Shake Up Your Look