I remember the first time I dyed my hair.
I was 20, hanging out on Granville Street with a bunch of street punks. I was quite attracted to a 16 year old guy named Adam--he reminded me of Sid Vicious. It didn't strike me as strange at the time that I wanted to go out with a boy instead of a man...I didn't know who I was, and he seemed so confident about his identity. It was quite alluring! So when he suggested I dye my hair black, I jumped at it. Anything to break ties with who I used to be.
One problem...I grew up in a house without hair-dye. I had never seen anyone dye their hair. Adam and his friend, Kale, said they'd help me. Oh boy!! Two for real punk rockers....fur-coat-hating, metal-stud wearing, tattooed vegetarian punk rockers were going to dye my hair!!! I couldn't wait. We went back to Adam's apartment and Kale, who turned out to be surprisingly gentle considering his large girth, took care of the dyeing process. I remember looking up into Kale's eyes as he rinsed the dye out in the bathroom sink. I was so happy. I felt so daring! I was going to look so unique!
It was 18 years before I grew out all the many and various colours I put into my hair. Now it is North American mousy brown with a generous sprinkling of kinky grey. I like it! I look intelligent. I look distinguished. I know for certain that nobody else on the planet has hair quite like mine. And I had thought uniqueness could be bought in a box from the drug store...I'm glad I figured that one out.