WOAH is me

Why on earth -- I ask myself now, with the benefit of hindsight -- WHY did I go 27 years between applications of pink hair dye?  

Surely the last time had to have been sometime in 1985, when I was a post-punk graduate student of Russian literature living at 21st and Folsom Streets in San Francisco.  I do remember dying my hair and collars and bathtub and vanity a uniform bright magenta, courtesy a self-applied bottle of Manic Panic (probably purchased at NaNa, just to date myself more, if such a thing were even possible)...  

Darling Pink: why oh why, did I wait?

From the moment I gingerly asked my genius Nicole about it, sitting in her chair at the fabulous Siren Salon, I just knew it was the right idea.  She had suggested pink in December initially, when we were first discussing highlights for my dirty blond hair, but I'd declined, using the lame excuse that I thought my husband would give me no end of shit.  But I didn't stop thinking about pink for the entire time between appointments.  When it became clear that we were going for it yesterday, I grinned and clapped and bounced around in my chair, naturally.

It just felt right.  Because it felt so fun.

What I couldn't have known was how absurdly pretty it would look and how crazy-happy it would make me feel.

And how it would take me back.

Way back in 1985, when I was, really, still a child, 22 years old -- that is, the last time I had pink hair -- I was, as above, a graduate student at SF State, combining my literary super-geek with the rest of my life and friends, most of whom were not in school or at all on the same track.  The neighborhood we lived in was marginal at best, but the flat was cheap and spacious with access to several corner stores, panaderias, laundromat and public transit.  It was not uncommon for me to watch a knife fight or drug deal gone wrong from the windows of our darkened living room.  There was also the time or two I had to call the police and convince them to come and remove large, roaring PCP-addled men from my stoop.

The pink hair at that time was a nod to my recent past, a way of integrating the life I'd had with my present. I picture me, with my loads of books, walking to and from the bus stop to make the long ride to school, or hunkered down at my desk at home working on translations, reading, or running from our place on up to Twin Peaks, because, in those days, I was still a runner -- I picture me, a baby really, with bright pink hair or, my favorite, black cherry or orange or fire-engine red, and I wish I could give me a high five.  Go on and keep rocking all of the parts of yourself at once.  Do it all.  Don't stop.  

But naturally, I did stop.  Lots of things happened in the intervening 27 years, most notable of which was the arrival of The Kid when I was almost 25, the dissolution of the relationship that created him, the years of love and parenting with my husband, and working and learning and making a living.  And the trade-off: the idea that in order to put all of the pieces together, to be a grown-up, I should have regular hair.

Pish-posh.

As Nicole was drying my hair yesterday, as her care in the application of the color just-so became clear, my excitement started to build.  I remind all readers that I declared this year 2012 to be The Year of Shri, aka The Year of Pretty.  This year my motto really is Go Pretty Or Shut Up.  I am not interested in solutions that just work, or bandages that make situations barely liveable.  It's not about survival.  This is the year I want things to work AND be pretty, the year for all of the details to be attended to, sorted out, shined up, SPARKLED up.  

So pink hair, in that context, this delightful frosting-like confection, is perfect -- it absolutely in every possible way captures the spirit of where I'm going this year, serves as a reminder every single time I catch a glimpse of it -- or walk up to a mirror to check it out, again. Because that's how much I love it.

It's playful, it's fun, it's pretty.  Of course I'm serious about my work, about my goals, about getting shit done.  But I also want to laugh while I'm doing it.  If having pink hair means people don't take me seriously, whatever: go ahead.  I don't care.

I want to look at myself every single day, jump around for happiness, and think, "Woah is me."  I want to knock my own socks off, be delighted, give myself a big-ass high five for rocking all parts of myself at once.  Pink hair: bring it!

XX

originally published February 24, 2012. Refreshed for Apocalypse Eve, 12/20/12. ;>