I was born a tow head—bubbly and bleach-free. As the years passed, so did that perfect shade of platinum. I've logged hundreds of hours in the salon to get back to what I call toddler blonde—I've learned without Darren (my amazing hair stylist) on a weekly retainer, this is impossible. Who has the time?
I've tried the gamut of golden—give me pale, strawberry, dirty, honey—and I'm a happy girl. I have no problem chopping off eight inches of hair, but I can't think of being anything but blonde. I talk a big game—for the past three years I've pleaded with Darren to make me chocolate brown. He asks if I'm going to freak out and I repeatedly respond "of course"—end of conversation.
I start off today's hair appointment with and a promise that I'm ready for the dark side and I will not collapse or hyperventilate. Three shades of lowlights, foils, and a hair toning process ensues—Darren is checking for tears—none. As he blows out my new mane, we both smile—that smile that happens when both the hair stylist and the client are lovin' it.
Darren tells me he never noticed my cute nose when I had blonde hair...really, can a hair color compliment a nose? Then he tells me my cheekbones are much more defined—I know at this point he is trying to deflect a possible meltdown. But I'm good—I like the dark side. I give my trusty hair guru a hug and ask the real question...does my new color make me look thinner?
