Blonde to Brunette

(crying) “Mommmmy that mean lady made my hair brown.”

“No she didn’t honey. It was already brown underneath.”

“Noooooooo. It’s not fair. She made it turn broooowwwn!!”

As far as I was concerned I was a blonde. All of my four years on this earth I had beautiful blonde hair just like the ladies on television. I remember being at my Grandma’s house and jumping on her bed after a bath imagining my hair bouncing like the springs below....just like the lady on the Prell commercial.

“Am I pretty Grandma?” I'd ask.

I’ll admit even to this day I’m not the best with personal hygiene. I can go to bed without brushing my teeth. I shower every other day. Hey! Don’t judge me. I haven’t had a cavity in years and I don’t smell. Ask Paul.

I’ll also admit that I’m willful. When I was a little one (around the age of four) I gave my mom a hell of a time. Putting my hands on my hips and telling her “you’re not the boss of me” and “go ahead. Take my toys. I’ll just get more.” My poor mother. She must have wanted to smack me so bad. In fact, I think she did a few times. Or more.

Well you can just imagine me, Miss Willful Bad Hygiene 1981, with straight, blonde, FINE (and I do mean fine) hair that I wouldn’t brush-and I wouldn’t let my mom brush. My hair started to look like a rat’s nest. My mother-just as willful as me-told me if I didn’t get the snarls out she’d take me to the hairdresser’s and as far as she could brush was where she’d cut.

She gave me a week.

“Do you understand?” She’d ask. “See how short your hair will be?”

I can only imagine the defiant look on my face as I went to bed. I didn’t care. I wasn’t concerned.

When the day came that we went to the hairdresser’s my mom was adamant. That hair was getting cut. The poor woman charged with cutting my hair looked at me with pity that had nothing to do with me. She felt sorry for herself. She knew she’d have to hear me cry.

“Please?” she begged my mom. “Please let me try to brush it out?”

“No.” My mom said. “She had the choice. Cut it.”

At this point you might be villainizing my mother. Don’t. She was right. Yes, I was only four, but I did this to defy her. I can remember that far back. I did it as a fuck you to her. The problem was that I was too young to see that it would only hurt me in the end.

One thing I’ll tell you about my mother is that she follows through. There are times I know she’s regretted it, but if she says something-you can be sure it will happen. And you know what? I really respect that about her as I got older. She always gave a warning, but if I decided to keep up with my shit, I had only myself to blame. Even if I didn’t agree with the consequence-I usually knew what it was before it happened and it was my choice to go there or not.

I always knew where my mother stood. I always knew what she said was what she meant and that she’d stand by it. I know that by the time I was a teenager I would think twice about what I did knowing that I’d have to face the consequences of whatever I had done.

And you know what? For the most part I don’t have a problem with my mother’s standards. Brush your hair. It's not nice to eat in front of others unless you can share. All people are equal. Be nice to animals. Work hard. Be honest. Be accountable.

Ok, so back to Miss Prell. When I walked into the salon my hair was blonde. My baby hair, that is. My grown-up Shawna hair had started growing in underneath. The hairdresser cut my hair as ‘long’ as she could. When she was done she had cut off all my blonde and left what was underneath. Brown.

“Moooommmmmyyyyy. That mean lady made my hair brown.”

“No she didn’t honey, it was already brown underneath. Your daddy and me have brown hair, so that’s what’s growing from your hair already. She just cut off all the blonde on top.”

I didn’t understand at the time that my roots had grown in brown already. My blonde hair was just my baby hair mixed with the sun bleached yumminess that spending four hours a day riding my tricycle in the sun can bring.

The hairdresser felt terrible when I started to cry. I think she might have felt worse when I told her she was a big meanie for making my hair brown. I think she was all of twenty-one. The poor thing. And I’m sure she whispered ‘bitch’ under her breath as my mother walked out of the salon.

But ya know what? I always brushed my hair after that. Always.