Black head

Fall is here. The mornings are cool and crisp. The afternoons bright, blue skyed warmth. Thoughts turn to wool sweaters, apple picking, falling leaves. In this spirit of fall renewal, I decided to henna my hair a mild chestnut brown, to tame down the harsh blonde highlights that I had put in over the summer. I picked up a package of henna at the local grocery store and then it sat on the back of my toilet for several weeks. It never seemed the right time to dye my hair; too late, too early, too tired, too distracted. With a lazy afternoon ahead of me (well, actually, I should be tidying the apartment but who wants to clean) I decided to dye my hair.

Henna has a long use in my family. I have hennaed my hair about every colour, and have fond memories of my mother with a plastic bag on her head, green goo sliding down her neck as she renewed the red that was hers for years.

I emptied the green powder into an enamel bowl, added water and put on plastic gloves. It felt like an old ritual. As the henna dried on my head, I read a travel book by Paul Theroux. When I rinsed off my hair, I got a surprise. My hair, normally a medium brown, is now pitch black. Not mild, chestnutty black, if such a thing exists, but teen-angst, goth black; pasty-skinned, belly-exposing black; cheap black. Ugly black.

Shit.

And it will look horrid growing out, that black tips with brown roots look that girls working the cash at the pharmacy seem to favour.

I did not want black hair. I do not like black hair. I do not have the eyebrows to support black hair. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror (and there have been many such glimpses as I vainly hope that in drying it won't be so very... black) I am struck at how horrid I look.

And there is nothing I can do about it. As I often say to my son when he wants something he can't have, tough bananas. I am stuck with it.

And there is something marvelously hysterical about being stuck with black hair, like being obliged to wear that hand knit reindeer sweater for months on end but not being able to wear it ironically. I have horrible black hair. This is a lesson of letting go, of letting go of ideas of myself, of how I must present myself to the world.

Which doesn't mean my hair won't be ponytailed for the next few months. Or under a hat.