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I remember the first time I had a panic attack over my hair. No hyperbole here — I’m talking about a hyperventilating, need-some-Xanax-now-level panic attack. It was in eleventh grade, hours after I’d decided to take my dyed-blonde hair darker, because Jessica Simpson had lowlights. (It was 2002, OK?) I had been a bottle blonde for years at that point. My hair, which I straightened every morning before school, was a honey color back then.
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Up to that point, I didn’t think I was emotionally connected to my hair. I never cared about getting it cut and would frequently chop off inches out of boredom. But there I sat in my then-boyfriend’s car, looking in the mirror and sobbing. I don’t remember if I actually voiced my feelings or just rushed back to the salon to get it fixed. But in that moment, I felt ugly. I needed to go back to who I’d been hours before, as quickly as possible. And I did. I calmed down, went back to the salon, and got a layer of highlights to hide the brunette shade mixed in. I remember looking in the mirror and breathing a sigh of relief. I was cute again.
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For years, I would play with hair colors. When I was broke and moved to New York for college, I dyed my hair darker but eventually went back to blonde. Let me be clear: I think dark hair is gorgeous. My hair is naturally a medium-brown color. My Instagram’s Saved folder is, and always has been, entirely brunette inspiration. I just never felt good-looking enough for the color. When I pictured brown hair and pale skin like mine, I saw Anne Hathaway and Keira Knightley. Since I didn’t think I was as pretty as them, I assumed I couldn’t “pull off” a brunette shade close to my natural color. I acknowledge how ridiculous that is, but it was just one of the unrealistic expectations I put on myself, bowing down to society’s idea of beauty. (Or, probably more likely, to what straight men consider “hot.”)
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