Welcome to Adulthood. It's 2013.

So most of you know by now that I have a distinct and finely tuned ability to turn most fun situations into low-level anxiety and am cursed with the thought that inanimate objects have feelings. So when you couple these two things, you have a perfect storm of crazy that really should be studied.

And the latest pairing of these emotions happened yesterday when, for the first time, I went to a Big Girl salon and got my hair colored.  
First of all, I’m lookin’ good, ya’ll. Truth.
Second of all, I literally had hair nightmares for three days leading up to the appointment and may or may not have apologized to my locks in the mirror that morning, explaining (in my head, not out loud, because that would be crazy) that it wasn’t personal and I wasn’t thumbing my nose at all my hair had done for me throughout the years. But I just wanted to change things up a bit, and so I hoped the follicles understood.
Of course in typical follicle fashion, they totally gave me the silent treatment even after I tried kissing up to them all day to no avail.
Anyway, dying my hair this is something that I’ve been toying with for about a  year now, pretty much ever since I looked in the mirror one day and realized that gray was the new brown and those f’ers were taking over my cranium in a subtle, yet aggressive, way.
Also, that whole notion I had growing up that I’d totally “age gracefully” and go au naturale, Silver Fox-style, flew right out the window the moment I realized what “aging gracefully” meant.
For the record, the definition of “aging gracefully” is as follows: For a really long time, you try to convince yourself that you’ll be one of those women who looks really good with silver locks, all distinguished, stunningly beautiful, and embraced by all that age brings. Then you realize that you for-sure don’t look like one of those women and your boyfriend has described you, lovingly, as “a little too natural” for never caring about your hair color, and you succumb to being the shallow gal you knew was living inside all along.
Also, perhaps I put too much importance on a bottle of hair dye?  

But whatever. Once I decided this was happening, it was on. Also, my friend Jen took it upon herself to make the appointment at the same time as hers and our friend Caitlin so that I couldn’t really bail. It’s a genius move, because even if I wanted to chicken out (I did), I wouldn’t because my guilt of not showing would always outweigh my fear of going bald from a botched dye job.

Also, if any of you think that it’s not completely within the realm of all things possible…you clearly haven’t read my blog for longer than today. It goes hand-in-hand with why, no matter WHAT, no Botox would ever touch the deep, growing lines belonging to my furrowed brow. Because we all know that I’d for sure have stroke-face after Botox-gone-bad and then my shallow-ness would literally be showing right there for the world to see. 
Anyway, as I sat in the chair, the stylist, Drew, started asking me questions, getting a feel for what I wanted, and figuring out how on EARTH this was my maiden voyage to hair color treatments.
Drew: So you’re a hair virgin?
Me: Yeah…..I know it’s kind of crazy, but I’ve just never really thought about it until recently.
Drew: Well, you’re gonna love it. Welcome to Adulthood, it’s 2013.
Me, laughing: Thanks! But I mean, I’m from Michigan, so….
Drew: People dye their hair in Michigan. That doesn’t fly. Let’s get you colored!
And he was off. And it was ON.
So by the time of the big reveal, I was all in. I mean, once you have a bunch of cold goop spread all over your skull and your friends are taking pictures of you in compromising hair situations to never share with anyone, you may as well embrace the fact that (a) it’s just hair and (b) it’ll make a good blog post either way. And really, at the end of the day, that’s all that matters anyway.
But in a not-so-shocking turn of events, I loved it, my friends loved it, CB loved it, and my follicles and I are back on speaking terms. Everything is right with the world once again.

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