The trouble with a blog is people hold you to your words. This a good thing if you believe in the accountability of community or the right to be called out under the premise of “truth and love”. This is not a good thing if you made a really ambitious list some months ago about the thirty things you wanted to do before you turned thirty and didn’t really mean to keep the very first one.
On Friday I dyed my hair blonde. I just did it, okay, in a moment of shleppiness. (A facialist recently asked, “How do you feel about your freckles?” and I worried, “Since when am I supposed to have feelings about my freckles?”) Except it wasn’t just a moment because I called and made the appointment two weeks ago and have been ripping photos of Cameron Diaz and January Jones out of magazines ever since and pressing Rush with questions like “High-lift blonde or bleach with toner?”
I didn’t know what was bothering me more: growing bored or growing old.
He is a good one, though, this Rush of mine. He tells me I’m not crazy for loving change as much as I do – even if the only change I love is the kind I can control. He tells me not to wait until my thirtieth birthday to do something that’s stirring in me now. He tells me it’s okay to break my word to myself over something like hair, that I need to stop worrying that this is the same troublesome spirit behind slowing down before the stop sign even though I told myself I’d run hard to the end.
He tells me I look beautiful when my friends ask, “Do you like it?” and I wonder if this means they don’t.
I hope I didn’t dye my hair because I don’t love my grays. It hope it’s because I love the possibility of other colors too much. Thankfully, my husband is the one hue that never gets old, even as I do.