Confessions of a Serial Swooper

I’ve been coloring my hair blonde for roughly 17 years.  Started right after college.  Most of the people I see on a regular basis (including my husband and, obviously, my children) have only  known me as a blonde.   I mean, everyone probably knew upon any sort of close examination that I wasn’t actually blonde.   But, no one ever saw me with truly dark hair.

I’ve been thinking about going closer to my natural color for a while.  Grey hair has come creeping in and I’m sick of having to go to the salon every five weeks to spend too much money on too-blonde coloring.  And, as I’ve mentioned in an earlier post my hair always looks pretty much the same two days later anyway.

Well, yesterday, I bit the bullet.   Sort of.  Instead of going au natural blah-ish brown, I went with a sort of brownish-reddish color that I’m totally into.  I think it works.  But, still, for the last twenty-four or so hours, when I walk by a mirror I can’t believe I’ve actually done it.  It’s definitely not anything like it used to be.   Who is that woman?

And, like my tattoo experience, Ross had absolutely no idea I was doing it.  I hadn’t even mentioned I was considering it.   He must think I’m going through some bizarre form of almost-turning-forty mid-life crisis.

Hmmm.  Maybe I am.

Whatever.  It was cheaper than a sports car.