Ginger

It feels like Ashley Simpson to Ashley Simpson-Wentz. It feels like fairy sprite to gothic vampire. It's probably not that bad, in reality.

It's probably worse.

My hair seemed okay in the salon...I had asked for a darker blonde/light brown. It looked like a medium brown. I could handle that. I walked into my apartment and rounded the corner to the bathroom. The mirror smirked at me. I debated crying, then decided to wash it first, hoping somehow to coax out the dye that, after scouring the internet, is supposed to not hold well. That was my hope. That is not how it turned out. I still have red hair. I still hate it.

Naturally, I'm a brunette like most girls. This is fine with me, although the particular shade is somewhat dull. Brown hair seems level-headed, easy going, and sincere. When I switched to blonde hair, I found I liked messing with people's perceptions of blondes. I also built my wardrobe around that color. I was comfortable in it. Because of various things, I was thinking I wanted to go back to my real hair color.

Instead, I got red. And red, to me, is annoying. Red is fussy and high maintenance. It's loud mouthed and hot tempered. On others, it's fine, but I don't like the shade on me- and I don't like the connotations. During the Spanish inquisition, it was thought that redheads stole the fire of hell. There's the "red on the head, fire in the bed" stuff. Supposedly, Cleopatra and Mohammed both used henna to die their hair red. But the Egyptions would bury redheads alive. This is not helpful to me.

I texted my dad, after having to miss a movie with him because I was in the salon (for 3 and 1/2 hours, no less). I told him I looked like a vamp. He responded with, "Then gooood eveeening," followed by an update on the Tour de France. This lack of sympathy made me laugh. I texted back, "Ah ah ah ahhh!" Really, what can I do but laugh? I keep reminding myself it doesn't matter-it won't matter a year from now, and no one cares that much. I will have to try to avoid mirrors for a while until it fades or I can accept it. Until then, it will be a daily saga of deciding what to wear so I don't look like Ronald McDonald (I love yellow...so I guess that's out), also having to eliminate half my wardrobe that I could wear as a blonde, and keep my eyes low when I go into work tomorrow morning and hear the barrage of comments that is sure to follow.

Some days, I get sick of being a girl. Today is one of them.