Risky Business

As I start to type about a “problem” so ridiculous that I consider writing it in my diary and pushing it back to the darkness of my bed side drawers, I halt and decide that this “problem” or “situation” rather is in this very moment over occupying my thoughts and behaving like a fly in my wine. Therefore I must divulge.

As the “situation” stands, I believe I have become stifled by the so called “beauty” of my own long, natural in colour, product -less, soft, low maintenance and extremely well behaved head of hair. Don’t worry, I can not see your eyes rolling back because mine have rolled so far back and taken pause mid way that I can literally see the inside of my shallow brain. Laugh if you must, but there is depth amidst this first world problem.

Due to the compliments and demands from my parents to never cut or colour my hair due to it’s natural beauty, the old “if it ain’t broke don’t fix it” theory, I grew to believe, until recently, that the only truly beautiful thing about me is my hair and without this accolade of natural beauty I would be lost amongst the idea of average or become frightfully invisible.

Now I look to my hair and see something I have never seen before, a canvas. For so long I envied those that took risks and braved the cut and chemicals that turned their locks into art. Perhaps what I truly envied was the risk and the bravery despite what form it came in. This “situation” has become a Segway to the realisation that I have been stifled by the fear of risk taking for the duration of my life thus far.

I am not or will no longer be bound by the so called “beauty” of my hair because if I were bald tomorrow, it would then be that that defined me amongst the drones of today’s media driven society. But in the presence of myself, I will feel like I might just be a little bit outrageous or fearless by the standards of a kitten at least.

And if all else fails, I will take a bottle of red to the hairdressers and by the time she is done I will be to drunk to care.

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