[ot-caption title=”Me right after my bleach and tone. (via Ali Oshinsky, Senior)” url=”https://pcpawprint.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/Screen-Shot-2015-03-08-at-10.23.20-PM.png”]

The first time I had any real control over my hair was the summer before fifth grade, when I decided I would do Locks of Love. Up until then, my brown hair had always been long, per the tastes of my mother, and hung down my back like a curtain. I walked into the salon wearing a ponytail, and in a few measly seconds, the whole of it was cut off. As I reached down to touch the freshly chopped tips of my now-shoulder-length bob, I felt exhilarated. Looking in the mirror, I could’ve been a different person.

You could say I am a bit of a hair extremist. I am only eighteen years old and yet I have been a brunette, red-head, blonde, and whatever the word is for a person with black hair. I have had pink, blue, and purple tips and one accidental week where my whole head turned the color of seaweed. I have cut bobs, bangs, and had hair to my hips. It grows back quickly and stays healthy with relatively large amounts of damage so, I figure, there’s no reason not to.

I know that I am not the norm, however. Most of my friends remain in possession of virgin hair, or hair that has never known the burn of bleach or dye. When I tell my mom I want to cut my hair shorter, I can always anticipate the cringe and argument over the precise inch-age being cut off to follow. My mom has the long brown curtain hair of my youth, shiny chestnut strands that I don’t even really remember having but that I’ve grown accustomed to seeing on her for as long as I can remember. I began to wonder – why has hair been so stigmatized as a security blanket, and why did I feel the need to let go of it as often as possible?

This Sunday I sat in a chic black and white salon in the heart of Miami Beach for hours in an attempt to find out. I had approached my colorist about three weeks prior to ask if it were possible for me to reach the lightest blonde possible, like the inside of a peeled banana. Platinum blonde was, for me, intertwined with Courtney Love and rebellious teenagerdom and asserting one’s ownership over her own hair. Plus, it seemed like everyone was doing it – Lena Dunham, Kim Kardashian, and Jared Leto had all recently taken the Platinum Plunge. As soon as I found out it was possible, I knew I had to do it.

The first thing that happened was a chop: I delineated my desired length, and my stylist took a scissor to it right in front of my eyes, several inches falling to the floor in one fell swoop. Already I felt lighter, free of a little bit of the stress and baggage I associated with long-haired me. Then, over the course of four hours, layers upon layers of bleach and foil were applied to my strands, building up around my face until I more resembled singer-songwriter Sia in a metallic wig than myself. Finally, after a round of toning and washing, the new me emerged.

Ribbons of pale blonde fell down around my face and grazed my collarbones in a way my hair had never before. My skin looked paler, my eyes bluer, and my cheeks pinker. I felt like me, but better, cooler, and somehow different. When I went to meet my family for dinner later, they walked right past the girl with mid-length blonde hair sitting outside the restaurant.

I suppose that for some people, their hair is their defining quality, the signature they leave on every outfit they wear or style they try. For me, letting go of that security seems to open more doors towards the type of person I can push myself to become.

Maybe in the future I’ll color the whole thing mermaid blue, or cut it to right below my ears. For now, though, I’m getting used to being a blonde and, as the old adage goes, I’m having more fun than ever.