Sometimes I like to consult the childhood version of myself. She is the badass that I wish I could be. Unruly blond curly hair, overalls with one strap unhooked, mud streaked face, practicing how to spit, wearing boys clothes, wrestling till someone’s nose bleeds.
She is fearless.
I admire her for her confidence, her independence, her cleverness, her energy, her imagination, and her ceaseless optimism. She doesn’t know it, but she is a damn strong feminist.
I look to her for advice on a lot of things, even mundane ones. Sometimes, when I get in the mood to color my hair, I think about how she is always confused by hair dye, almost as if she doesn’t trust it. She would say “what’s wrong with the color it is? why do you think you need to change it? that isn’t who you are.” It’s stilly to talk to a 7 year old for beauty advice. I, and my opinions, have grown since then. But truthfully, every time I dye my hair I regret it. A couple years will pass, I’ll forget my old remorses, I’ll get bored with my usual cut, and I’ll dye it again. And then I’ll remember how much I hate spending all that time in a salon, what a stupid waste of money it is, how frustrating it is when the color immediately fades or the bleach just wont grow out, and how my actual color is just fine. It’s a minor thing, but I do always think – I should have listened to her, I should have listened to me – and somehow I know in my gut that this is about so much more than hair dye.