I'm not sure when it started, but it was sometime last year when my brother mentioned that he had bleached his hair; it brought back memories of the glory days of the late nineties - the internet was booming, we all had seemingly fantastic jobs that didn't involve dress codes, set work hours, or tangible goals, back when I had electric purple hair. That's right, electric purple. I made sure that all photographic evidence was destroyed, just in case of an improbable future political career, but it was indeed purple. Sometime after my brother's nonchalant boast of hip coolness, I decided to buy a box of hair bleach, and since then it has been lurking underneath my bathroom sink, quietly whispering my name, calling to me.

Perhaps because of my rapidly approaching 30th birthday, or the stress of trying to complete a book, writing a new curriculum for another online class, and meeting the deadline for another screenwriting contest, I finally cracked, and gave in to the impulse to open the box. I had second thoughts, yes, but even if my hair turned offensively green, there was little repercussion. My hair didn't go green, but it went an odd gradient of straw yellow (I'll avoid the U-word here...). It looks totally unnatural, but it doesn't look hip and cool either. But I have held my head high, and "owned" my hair decision.

Most people politely say that it looks nice, after they goggle at it for a few long seconds. One person said that it looked "fun", while surpressing a giggle and a goggle. Meanwhile, I'm imagining that I am a thirties movie starlet, with bobbed platinum (short of) tresses, sweeping unperturbed through rooms of gawking onlookers. It helps a bit, and is more fun than a hat. Next week, I think I will go fiery yet bookish red, and pretend that I am Athena, goddess of technology and war.