By Meghan K.
“You’re kidding me.”
I stared incredulously at my reflection, the peachy coral tones
that now dominated my hair glaring back at me like a neon sign. This absolutely
had to be a joke; there was no way that dye could’ve turned my hair coral.
“Okay, that was not how I expected this to go,” said my
best friend Pearl.
“I’ll say,” I replied. “This has to be some sort of nightmare!”
“Are you absolutely sure you lightened it enough?” asked Pearl,
scrutinizing the jar of hair dye to make sure she didn’t forget anything.
“You’re naturally red, right? Red hair bleaches to a yellowy gold sometimes;
that would do it.”
“Absolutely positive!” I replied. “I had the lady at the salon
go the whole nine yards, as platinum blonde as you could go! I actually scared
the living daylights out of myself when I looked in the mirror because I was so
incredibly blonde!”
“Then it has to be the hair dye,” Pearl guessed, shaking
her head.
She turned the jar over again, and gasped.
“Oh man,” she mumbled, and then added, “Yeah, this is completely
the wrong color. Look, Ruth, I am so sorry. I should’ve double checked
before I told you that this particular color was the best shade of pink on the
planet.”
“It’s entirely not your fault,” I replied. “I got a little
suspicious when I saw the color was called ‘Coral Cupcake’ but I guessed that
you probably knew better than I did, so I didn’t say anything about it.”
Pearl bit her lip and looked as though she was about to cry.
“Hey,” I said, putting a hand on her shoulder, “maybe it’ll grow
on me. My mom always says I look good in coral and I’ve been looking for a
shade that’ll really jazz up my life; maybe this’ll become my new favorite hair
color.”
“Maybe,” Pearl replied, obviously unconvinced.
“And if it doesn’t, we’ll regroup in about a week and you can
help me think about what to do next, okay?”
“Okay. Once again, Ruth, I am so sorry.”
“It’s really no big deal,” I insisted. “I needed to jazz up my
life anyway.”
We went downstairs, my coral hair repeatedly falling down into
my eyes and reminding me that I’d been going for cotton candy pink, and we
watched Star Trek reruns for about three hours before Pearl finally
blurted out, “Is your mom going to be okay with this?”
“She let me bleach my hair, didn’t she?” I replied.
“Yeah, but you bought this hair dye and now you’re never going
to use it!” Pearl exclaimed. “Won’t she be mad?”
“I fully intend to use it,” I answered, “so no, she won’t be
mad. A little shocked because this isn’t the color she was expecting, but not
mad.”
“I’m so sorry,” Pearl repeated.
“It’s not your fault.”
My mom was indeed shocked; after all, I had told her that Pearl
and I were dyeing my hair cotton candy pink, as bubblegum-y and rosy as you
could get. Basically, I had promised her the truest shade of pastel pink. But
no, she was not mad.
Now I just had to make this hair color grow on me in a week.
Nothing to it, right?
I woke up the next morning, and when I looked in the mirror, I
didn’t recognize myself for a second. Why was my hair coral? But then I
remembered Pearl and the hair dye, and a sort of disappointment settled over
me. I’d been so looking forward to pink; now I was going to have to settle for
Coral Cupcake and just pretend that it was the color I wanted.
I was going to see Pearl at drama tomorrow night; we were
supposed to talk about re-dyeing my hair a week from now, sure, but there was
no way I could make this color work for me.
I spent the whole day avoiding mirrors. Platinum blonde had only
been weird; coral just made me feel like my whole face looked sunburned. And
when I blushed? Oh man, it was the most mortifying thing ever; my face would go
the same shade of pink as my hair and I felt like curling up in a hole.
The next day, though, something in me wanted to try again. Sure,
my hair was the same shade of pink as my face turns when I sunburn it, but
maybe I could make this work. Maybe, just maybe, I could make this happen.
I’d been avoiding the sage green dress in my closet for about a
month now. But as soon as I put it on, the awkward feelings I had about my hair
vanished. I parted my bangs down the center (something I never, ever do because
it’s always looked weird on me), and I slid a black headband into the short,
messy waves I called my hair. Somehow, it actually looked okay, like maybe this
odd coral mess on my head actually belonged to me.
When I arrived at drama that night, the first person I went to
talk to was Pearl.
“Hey, Pearl,” I said. “I think I might be able to handle the
color.”
“You actually kind of rock it,” Pearl agreed. “How did you do
it?”
“I don’t really know,” I replied. “I just kind of wanted to make
something out of this. I didn’t want to regret going coral.”
“So you’re not mad at me?”
“Why would I be mad at you?”
“I spent all of yesterday worrying that you’d be furious because
I messed up your hair.”
“It’s just hair. It’s no big deal.”
“Yeah, but your hair is your identity.”
“No it’s not. My hair is basically protein growing out of my
head; the color of it doesn’t matter. My identity is how I see myself. It’s not
my hair color or the clothes I wear.”
“You sound like a Disney movie.”
“That’s my job.”
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