Strawberry Blonde (Emphasis on "Straw")

I don't like following trends too closely. In fact, I prefer to stand out a bit. But when it comes to hairstyles, I generally just go for cuts and colours that look good on me and flatter my eyes, skin and bone structure. My hair is naturally brown; light brown, I guess. When my boyfriend suggested I bleach my hair light blonde (à la Paris Hilton), I flashbacked to a few years ago.

Calling my family "middle class" would be generous. Considering my Dad gave me a $40 budget for my prom dress, I was used to having to improvise when it came to my hair. My prom hairstyle was an enormous afro (my hair is naturally straight). During my late teens I experimented with punk colours, effects and androgynous looks so that I could express myself in an inexpensive way. Having no money forced me to be creative with whatever I had.

Around the age of sixteen, I started to branch out from my usual peppering of gold throughout my long brown locks. I wanted to be noticed so I asked my artsy cousin to paint some neon green into my gold highlights. My boyfriend at the time was a the lead singer in a punk rock band and I wanted to look like I fit the role of his girlfriend (although he had a natural auburn hair colour, he was heavy with piercings, tattoos and a slightly scary dog collar; what can I say? I liked bad boys). The green turned out pretty nice. Since it just sort of coloured over the lighter highlights I'd had, it looked subtly cool. When I came back from a trip to Italy, I was ready for some expressing-myself-through-my-hair excitement once again. This time, however, I bleached my entire head to a light, white-blonde colour. Then I dowsed my hair in a hot pink, glue-like substance that was guaranteed to create a most unnatural colour. I rinsed it out, conditioned and blow-dried. Then I combed something of a bouffant shape into my shoulder-length tresses, liquid eye-lined my lids and spread mascara through my eyelashes. The result? Incredible. My complete look was something of a head-turner. I was young, I had a great summer tan, and I loved to show off my legs. I didn't have a care in the world and I walked around like I was hot stuff. I definitely got noticed.

Two weeks passed and my pink locks soon became a washed-out peachy-yellow colour. It made me look ill.
I considered redoing my pink look, but decided I was tired of it. Instead, I toned my blonde to a light, Debbie Harry shade that would keep my punk look intact. I rebleached the roots and toned it all to a white-hot colour that would have been the envy of Gwen Stefani. And, once again, I was pretty confident about it.

By the fall, I was starting my first year at university and my blondeness was becoming less flattering against my fading tan. I let it grow out a bit before dying it all to match my brown roots. The whole time, no matter what my hair looked like, I maintained an attitude of confidence. If I pretended to be hot, others would believe it too.

Aside from a few spontaneous red dye days, and one angry bang-chopping day, my hair has remained pretty conventional since my late teens. I have kept it at a medium length and haven't strayed too far from my natural colour. Until, that is, my boyfriend suggested a makeover, or rather, a blonde-over.

I suppose I had forgotten the blonde episode I went through during my Debbie Harry stage, or maybe I just remembered the good parts of it. Either way, I decided to give it a try once again.

I went to my usual hair salon a few blocks away, on the first day of the third month following my last haircut. And this is how my appointment went:

“Bonjour, j’ai un rendez-vous à neuv’heures et quart?” I say to the lady behind the counter at the chic hair place. “Pour des mèches?”

“C’est ça.”

I sit down and talk about Christmas with the lady from France who is the best highlighter I have ever had. She and her colleague talk about Santa and the parade and things like that; I am half-tuned-out since it requires some concentration to gather meaning from their mix of French and Quebecois accents. But then they ask my opinion. “Est-ce que tu es Catholique?”

Although I could have understood, I pretend I don’t and the Quebec girl looks guiltily at the French woman. She asks her how to say something in English. Neither of them knows that the term they are looking for is “wise men”. I pretend I don’t know either.

Then the French one says (all the while the Quebec girl holding a piece of my hair up while the French one paints chemicals onto another piece) that it is the wise men that brought to gifts to Jesus that started the trend of Santa Clause. I don’t say anything.

Then she says, thinking I don't understand, "Je ne sais pas pourquoi elle veut ruiner ses cheveux." She says this in a low voice and her eyes are darting around the store as she tries to make it look like she is talking about anything but me. They continue to exchange a look of judgment about my bleaching choice.
But in my mind, it is very simple; I know women like Cameron Diaz and Scarlett Johansson do not have naturally light blonde hair, so if they can bleach theirs effectively, then why can't I? I already explained all this to my hairdresser, but she didn't seem to understand. She pulls at every piece aggressively, as though she is angry with me. Now she is the one expressing herself through my hair.

I had told her I didn't want to hear her opinion; I just wanted her to answer yes or no. Could she or couldn't she make me look like Cameron Diaz. She had shrugged.

I open my eyes after the relaxing head massage and towel dry. My hairdresser slowly reveals what lay beneath the towel. My first reaction is one of mild shock. Is this me? I am an open-face pineapple. But I cannot let her know that I am dissatisfied. I want to pretend that I had intended to look like this and I knew I would look like a pineapple, and I'd be damned if I stayed a brunette, when I can look like this.

I make no reaction and continue to read Chatelaine as she combs and plays with my hair. Thirty minutes, a cut and a style later, I am on my way out. I stop to pay. Usually, my once every three-month haircut costs me $145, tip included. I wait for the lady to tally up my bill.

"Deux cent, soixante-six, s'il vous plait," she looks up and smiles at me like an angel.

"WHAT?" I think. I take out my visa and pay in silence. I do not add a tip. I leave. I put the hood of my jacket on and walk home. I try on different outfits in an attempt to improve my yellow head syndrome. Nothing works.

I sit and study, sulkily, until my boyfriend comes home.



What transpired over the next few months was a chapter in my life I like to refer to as, "Hair Hell". I had spent too much money on my botched blonde hairstyle (although my boyfriend told me to go back and complain until they gave me my money back, I simply could not let that horrible hairdresser know that she'd been right about ruining my hair), so I couldn't afford to get it redone right away. I tried to redo it myself.

To even out the yellow in my hair, I tried a variety of toners. I tried ash, beige, and strawberry blonde. I tried everything to neutralize the copper and gold banana peel shades in my hair.

Nothing looked natural and I spent a lot of money on special shampoos and conditioners to keep my tresses soft and moisturized. Even those didn't work.

Although the toners mellowed the vibrant yellow of my hair, the texture was becoming more straw-like with every new application of colour. I discovered, through experimentation, that the colour that best suited my freckly skin tone and blue eyes was definitely the strawberry blonde tones, but the constant damaging affect of the chemicals was turning it into dry, brittle, splinters of what my hair used to be like.

At the end of Hair Hell, I began to research other hair salons in Montreal. I was tired of being a slave to toner and I was tired of my opaque, strawberry blonde (emphasis on "straw") helmet of dried-out splinters - they were a fire hazard! I called around, comparing prices and asking about services. My boyfriend must have been relieved about my decision, for he'd had to put up with spontaneous bursts of tears over the course of Hair Hell, and must have been getting tired of it.

One day, as I walked down Rue Ontario, I came across an alternative looking salon. It was sandwiched between two tattoo parlors and featured a couple of leather-clad guys sitting on the front steps. I gingerly stepped in. I didn't really ask any questions, I just made an appointment for the following week... TO BE CONTINUED