A year and a half ago, I went from waist length black hair – a style I’d had for well over fifteen years – to a white blonde pixie cut, and then to a buzzcut. At the time, I thought white blonde, short hair was the best thing ever and I swore I’d never go back long or black.
But now I’m not in a very good space, mentally, emotionally, physically, every-thing-elsely… And to make matters worse, my hair is currently at the ’90’s pop boyband curtains’ stage, and it’s painful to look at myself in the mirror.
Whenever I do catch sight of my visage, I sigh pitifully and look for the nearest hat to slam on the offensive tatty mop that is currently my head.
When life decides that I deserve to have a really shitty time, a little voice whispers, ‘you know what you need to do Katie, you know what you need to do to feel safe, to feel good, to feel you. You need to go back. You need to go back to black. Eventhough your hair is still short, you’ll feel better for it. You know you will. Go on, do it. Do it now.’
And folks, I nearly did it. I nearly bought a box of hair dye today and was preparing myself to go back dark.
I didn’t though.
Maybe it would have been for the best if I had bought it. If I had gone back to black. But I didn’t. And you know what stopped me? Thinking of Tilda Swinton in Only Lovers Left Alive (hated the film, loved her hair) and Karin Dreijer Andersson in those phenomenal early Fever Ray promo shots.
I also thought about how I looked in my long, blonde wig, and that, if I could just hang the fuck on while it grows, and leave it blonde, it might be one of the best things I ever do and I might even *GASP* feel more confident than I did when I had long black hair. And, if I don’t. If it’s long and blonde and I don’t feel it, then I know I can go back to my old and trusted shade of night.