I wrote this stream-of-consciousness for my depression blog but I decided this is public food too because this is an important part of the search of who I am throughout my own aeshetics.
New hair has always meant new changes for me.
The first time I dyed my hair was black because I wanted to be cool, I was seventeen, I wanted to belong and I wanted to experiment.
The second was getting that damn dye out of my hair; it was in orange patches.
Eventually it grew an unnaturally beautiful orange; one of my best friends wanted me to model for his clothing because it looked so beautiful with the teal in his coat. I was too short.
I dyed my hair in this way for a while, the name of the colour was something with ‘paprika’ in it (why are orange paprikas so hard to find — I know it’s so do with the riping process but they’re gorgeous I want to eat them forever). This hair dye doesn’t exist anymore.
Next time I went for blonde, then somekinda strawberry blonde.
Then, fuck it, red. First year of university.
University failed. I came out to my parents as having depression after not being able to move out of bed for two weeks (they were on holiday and I lived in their luxurious double bed with goose feather blankets). I remember my dad and I went to see Lou Reed’s Berlin live the day I took my first pill. I cried a little during Satelite of Love even though that’s not at all one of my fave songs of his, far from it. I felt uncomfortable; my parents were worried but they expressed it through anger.
My hair grew longer and tangled and tangled and tangled
I got a job because I quit uni (sorta); my friends and I stole champagne because our bosses were dicks and the clients flithy rich. I don’t remember what my hair looked like at the time. I drank a lot.
I started a new year at art school. One day I arrived in class and nothing went as expected — this always makes me nervous — I made up an excuse to get out and got my only money to get a hair cut. My hair was so tangled and red-purple-something, so greasy the student-hairdresser cringed, but I felt so good in that chair. My hair was waist-lenght. I was in a new school, I decided I had gotten over a stupid boy – I damn well wanted a louise brooks style bob. I wanted new hair to get to go with my new life. I washed all that dirt off of me. I let all that mess fall off of me. The hairdresser cut it shoulder length. It didn’t take long for me to push sciccors in one of my best friend’s hands and told him to cut it mid-ear. He did. I was shocked — I was afraid my square-ish face looked too prominent. I spent hours looking at it. I dyed it black. I looked at it a lot and decided I loved my strong jawline. I loved it, I loved me. I felt invincible.
I bleached it again. Bleach bleach bleach bleach until I had a cotton candy pink bob. I felt invincible, I felt happy. So happy.
The ultimate bink bob look I’ve achieved in my pink bob days.
The pink had to go during summer time when I needed a job (I never got a job) but I got back to the pink pretty quickly.
But then I got bored; it grew longer and longer — occassionally I cut it but then all of a sudden I didn’t any more. My one girl dream was to own hair as long as the wind could blow and touch my crush. I have the freedome to do this. Let’s do this.
I was playing with left-over bleached parts at work a year later, and they broke off. I was shocked but I laughed. Five years later I am ready for my hair to break off again.
By bleaching the hair I’ve preened and cared for during a slowly worsening depression for over five years, I hope I washed it all away.
Tomorrow i will take it slow; my hair will fall over my textbook and I will feel invincible again.
I’m trying out another new me.