When I was very little, my hair was very fair. On holidays abroad, it got me lots of attention. ”Ah, biondi bambina!” the Italian waiters would say as they patted my head.
I freakin’ love a bit of attention. Don’t know if you’ve noticed.
Over the years, my white blonde turned to what you might say was ash blonde. Mousy. Non-descript.
At 17 I couldn’t take it anymore. I’m a blonde, I tell you! A blonde! They have more fun! I AM FUN!
So I got some highlights. And so began 20 years (and counting) of fannying about with my hair colour.
At 22 I dyed it a horrid yellow and tried to wash it out with fairy liquid. At 25 I went brunette (I can confirm blondes don’t necessarily have more fun). I have been every shade and permutation in between.
A few years ago I tried to grow all my colour out and accept what Mother Nature gave me. I caved after six months and started the journey to full-on bleach blonde.
This journey co-incided with some pretty big changes elsewhere in my life. I lost weight and got fit. I changed careers. I started to get to know myself properly. I felt alive. I wanted to stand out. I wanted to look like Debbie Harry.
Who doesn’t want to look like Debbie Harry?
The thing is though, I’m not her. And although it was fun to give it a go for a year or so, I think it’s time to take the wise advice of my 17-year-old niece:
‘Just do you fam.’
I couldn’t resist giving it my best shot to be Debbie just before I do, though.
(My favourite photo of Debbie, taken on a Polaroid by Andy Warhol.)
Do Not Touch The Lobsters 