Dear Ali,
You dyed your hair blue today. You didn’t do it out of
rebellion, you weren’t trying make a statement, you just wanted blue hair. Four
months ago, you told me what you wanted; you showed me pictures on Pinterest of
girls with beautiful hair in all different shades of blue and you were so excited. I said you
could do it, but it probably wouldn’t look like the images on Pinterest, I said
it would likely resemble the hair on the folks we see wandering through
downtown. Your shoulders slumped and I immediately realized my mistake.
Why did I even go there? When I was your age I hated when my parents questioned my
style choices. I never ever felt beautiful enough. Apparently, thrift store flannels and
Jimi Hendrix t-shirts aren’t flattering on a daughter who refuses to wear
make-up. You just can’t show her off to your friends, I guess. I will not do that to
you. I took back my words and encouraged you to experiment. It’s just hair but,
more importantly, it’s your hair.
We tried a few store-bought colors: Leatherhead and Red
Velvet; they both looked great. But eventually you spoke up. You still
wanted blue and these colors weren’t cutting it. When you bought a jar of Manic
Panic in Voodoo Blue, my heart soared because that’s the same color I put in my
hair on April 5, 1994. I remember the date because my friends and I were in a
head shop in Seaside, Oregon buying Manic Panic when the news broke that Kurt Cobain
had killed himself. How does a 17-year-old Nirvana fan forget something like
that? You chose Voodoo Blue and I felt like we somehow connected.
A hairstylist quoted you $250 to bleach your hair. You made
an appointment to be polite and then we all laughed and you called later to cancel your
appointment. Yesterday, your aunt Leah saved the day (like she has done so often before)
and brought her Kaleidacolors bleach to the house. You let us bleach your hair and every now and then, Leah and I glanced at each other over your head in
amazement because you were letting us touch you. You hate being touched, but we
relished every minute.
Today, you let me apply the Manic Panic. I was nervous but
thrilled to spend time with you and show you that I support your style. Besides,
I got to touch you and play with your hair and look at you. You sat in the
kitchen watching Sleepy Hollow on the
laptop, oblivious to the fact that you just made my month.
When it was time to rinse, you situated yourself on the
bathroom floor with your back against the tub. I sat next to you rinsing your
hair like I did when you were little. You closed your eyes, probably because
you didn’t want to accidentally make eye-contact (you hate that too). I stared at
your face, stunned by how fast that sweet baby face turned into a beautiful young woman face. I worried that you’d open your eyes and then roll them at me for
being sappy.
After your hair was rinsed (man, that took a long time), you said, "Thank you for helping me with this." I almost hugged and kissed you and thanked YOU for allowing me to, but I acted chill and just said, "Sure." You went up to your room and I followed. Maybe I thought we could continue bonding.
I
lay on your bed and you sat in front your mirrored closet doors drying your new bluish-teal hair. You glared at me in the mirror and I smiled.
“Whaaaat?” You said, turning off your blow dryer. You were
suddenly exasperated with me.
“Can I please take a picture?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“Nope.” You sighed, a sign I should probably leave. “What’s for dinner?” You asked without looking at me.
“Chili,” I answered.
“Ew.”
Bonding over—I get it. Let me know when you want to go
purple. I’ll be here, waiting.
-Mom
