"Oh honey, don't touch the colour — this is the type of hair men are attracted to," a hairdresser warned as he ran a round brush through my long, chocolate-hued hair, leaving it in ribbons around my shoulders. I'll never pull the trigger, I thought, convinced. Basic wins again.
You see: I'm a 30-year-old (hair) virgin. And I just can't seem to give it up. I slunk into the white leather salon chair, watching my fantasies of golden ombré ends, Jessica Alba "bronde" highlights, and even Katy Perry blue tints float away.
Don't feel bad for me. I was blessed with a thick, wavy brunette mane (thanks for the genes, Dad!), which I appreciate immensely. But it left me with a conundrum: to dye or not to dye?
The first time I ever considered colouring it was in middle school. Jennifer Aniston was at the peak of her '90s Friends days and every girl wanted "The Rachel," complete with face-framing highlights. My mother forbade it. She has struggled with what she describes as thin, mousy hair. And as a result, she has lived vicariously through my mane, protecting every strand on my head as if it were her own. Threatening. Bribing. Begging. (You know how mothers can be!) So I never took the plunge. Never dyed a strand. Not even a gloss.