The first time I dyed my hair was November of 2010. Why then? I suppose you could say that I wanted to be a different person. Everyone that I knew had black hair. Black appeared so common, so primal. Its workaday appearance enraged me. The color that I attempted to switch to was dark brown, but because my hair was so intensely dark, the color didn’t take. For the next few months, I drizzled my hair with hydrogen peroxide to lighten the dye. It actually worked, but I knew this method was disastrous for the consistency of my hair.

I proceeded to dye my hair again in March of 2011. It was professionally (well, as professional as you can get in the back of an Indian salon) done. My hair was a mass of brown strands, and I, for the first time in several months, felt incredibly happy with myself. I loved my brown hair; it looked natural.

The third time I dyed my hair was in July. It was for a wedding overseas. I was terribly upset when it was over; brown was replaced with purple. A dark, feisty purple colored my entire head. It was exciting for the first few weeks, but it quickly became somewhat trashy.

The fourth time I dyed my hair was January of 2012. This was the first time that I got highlights against my will. You can’t imagine the expression on my face as the Italian woman unveiled blonde highlights in my hair before she proceeded to glaze them over with red. I was in a state of shock. Initially, once my hair was completely done, I enjoyed the look. However, the highlights quickly lost their touch, and they began to look trashy. It wasn’t natural. It wasn’t me.

In a hastened attempt to remove the highlights, I went back to the Indian salon to dye my hair completely brown again in April. It turned out great, but the rust-colored highlights slowly creeped back into my hair, much to my displeasure.

And now, on May 27th, 2012, I went back to black. 

It’s not worth escaping what I am anymore. I’m eighteen now, and professionalism is calling. However, I won’t wear black like anyone else. I won’t abuse it. I’ll treasure it and treat it as though it were a golden blonde. I can make black beautiful again, beautiful for me.

And that’s a promise. 

Losing control of my life.