People ask “Do you have more fun?” or “Do you feel dumber?” I myself am guilty of having made stupid jokes in both of those veins. The truth is, it doesn’t matter what your hair color is. You can’t escape who you really are.
—
On the night I sat down to write Lisa’s eulogy, I was still a little drunk with the flu. I remember surfing through her Twitter stream, looking for a hook to start with, as if I didn’t have enough material after knowing her for over half of my life. In my job as a writer, if I don’t have a hook, I procrastinate. And so I started telling myself I was going crazy, because I was. I was crazy with grief and longing and sick and tired. Speaking the truth, even inside my head while the kids were downstairs with that week’s third different babysitter, was supposed to help me stamp it down, not rise up and take me over.
But then I started daydreaming about getting in my car and driving south. Where would I stop? I live in Los Angeles. I can drive from here to the very southern tip of Baja California in Mexico. Mexico! That’s it! I would drive to Mexico and drink margaritas and just be drunk all the time so I wouldn’t have to feel this. But I wouldn’t be able to drink the margaritas right away, would I? I would have to drive for a long time to get where I wanted to go – alone, in the car, with only myself and my grief.
I don’t know where the thought came from, honestly. It was another crazy cell in my brain, maybe, or all the running on fumes and hallucinations. Or even a thought put in my head by Lisa herself, if you believe that sort of thing. Whatever the source, one second I was plotting my tragic midlife drunken flee to Mexico, and the next second I thought:
“Or, I could dye my hair blonde.”
—
I actually lunged for my phone after I had that thought, clinging to it like a life preserver. I called the only hair stylist I know in town, my newish friend from my kid’s school. I am sure I sounded slightly hysterical when I asked her, this woman I hardly knew. She talked me down from the ledge, sort of. We made an appointment, and I didn’t tell anyone. I crept off to our 3-hour session of turning me from a lifelong brunette into an instant blonde.
My kids didn’t recognize me right away. My husband took one look at me and asked with great caution, “Is that what you wanted?” For a very long time, I paused every time I walked by a mirror, wondering who was looking back out at me.
Well. She is different now in so many ways, the woman in the mirror. She has been sobered by death, a very sudden death that was impossible to predict and therefore means Certain Disaster for me.
But one year later, I’m still here. I don’t know that I need to continue to be blonde. But I don’t think I’m ready to go back to brunette. I bought some pink hair chalk last time I got a touch-up, and whenever I feel like scheduling a new color session, I just put a washable streak in my locks.
—
Yes, in the last year lots of people have said it looks pretty. They have said it makes me look 10 years younger. They have remarked about my blonde hair instead of asking how I’m feeling, or before asking how I’m feeling. It has been less awkward that way.
It does feel pretty, and that does make me feel good, but even my fancy new blonde hair gets really disgusting after a few days of me not washing it because I’m too depressed to take a shower. Even this semi-permanent wig of self-deception gets pulled back in a ponytail far more often than I let it down.
In a recent post here, Pauline declared “I am my own red dress.”
My blonde hair is my red dress. My helmet of “Fuck you, Death.” I’m not over her and I never will be. But after a year of being blonde, I’m not dead yet, and I’m a different person. The point is, I have to live anyway. I’ve got to keep enjoying life, no matter what color my hair is. Sometimes it’s easier than others. Sometimes it’s harder than I ever thought possible.
Someday I’ll be my own blonde hair.
is a freelance writer in Los Angeles. She publishes her personal blog, House of Prince, where she writes about her misadventures in parenting, and a hyperlocal blog called Agoura Hills Mom. Kim enjoys hiking, reading, and a tasty cocktail.
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I don’t have any words to respond with, but wow did I ever want you to know that I heard you.
{This piece is breath taking.}
I agree. Thank you for reading, Galit. We truly appreciate it.
I’ve been staring at my screen for a few minutes, trying to think of what I could possibly say to send reader love, to let you know I was here, I read, I was moved and want to hug everyone I love a little harder tonight, and to tell you your writing makes me swoon.
I couldn’t come up with anything that didn’t seem trite.
Big love.
Kim, it really does get better with time. I lost my best friend of 26 years on November 15, 1997. I was with her as she exhaled her last breath. I felt like my heart was being ripped out. Her death was sudden too. I will spare you the long story but we were totally unprepared for her death. The long and short of it is that there is crushing pain. There are tears when you least expect them, even 15 years later but yet the time comes when you can breathe easier. You no longer feel so lost. You will know that Lisa is with you but it is a bittersweet knowledge rather than the feeling of a red hot poker piercing your soul. I wish you well in your journey. I am glad you found a rather novel way of coping. Use whatever it takes to get through the miasma of grief and despair. Deep Peace, Ardee-ann
I dyed my hair as a F-you to getting old…for 30 years people told me “you shouldn’t dye your hair, it’ll make you look older…well now that I hit 50…blonde was my middle finger to “50 is the new 40…” No it isn’t, but being blonde helped lesson the effects of growing older but created new issues…like how often I’m forced to get my hair dyed, over and over and over again…
This was beautiful. Powerful and so real. Thank you for sharing. I hope that your hair, your being, your true self always keeps you steady and shines through – whatever color you choose. And I think going semi-pink sounds awesome. If it brings you what you need just do it. And tell me where the color comes from, I want to go semi-purple sometimes.
{hugs} to you!
Beautiful. Tears in my eyes.
You are beautiful, and I love you.
I can’t stop thinking about your grief and the way we hide our grief and the way we can’t hide our grief because it hangs from our bodies. There is something beautiful about hiding your grief in something that can make you say–”Fuck You Death”
My grandmother always says, “Put on a little schminky (yiddish for lipstick), it’ll make you fee better.” And you know what? For a few moments…it does
I love this line: Even this semi-permanent wig of self-deception gets pulled back in a ponytail far more often than I let it down. Sending you hugs from one “blonde” to another.