Last weekend I went mental and had my hair dyed from bright blonde to brown. Not a gentle, caramel hued fudge. Not a soft, coppery oak. I'm talking batty Bonham Carter brown, darker than madness itself.
I had been blonde for six years. Blonde is the fun, dippy, easy-going, party-loving Me of my late twenties. I don't have the time, the bank balance or the deep conditioning treatments to deal with it any more. Post-baby, I had been walking round like a dog-eared version of my former self: hair scraped back, haloed with frizz, ends so split there wasn't even hope of a reunion tour. It was time to take drastic action.
Going dark was more of shock than I'd expected. I'm seven years older than the last time I had dark hair. My thirty-something complexion is going to take some serious TLC before it can stand up to the harsh mistress Brunette. My hair is now a brutal contrast to my pasty face, mutinously pointing out my extra bags and wrinkles. I haven't been able to leave the house without a FFOM (Full Face Of Make-up) yet.
I tell you what though, it still feels good. I can wear yellow again. I can go an extra day without a shampoo. I'm saving £10 and an hour and a half at hair appointments I can now wait weeks longer for. My hair doesn't look like its been cooked in a George Foreman mega-grill anymore. I can get away with wearing at least ten times more eye make-up, which is my absolute favourite thing to do. And I can pretend to be dark and mysterious for at least five minutes before opening my mouth.
Who wouldn't want to be a brunette?
(I give it at least six months before I go post-box red)