Red Is Not My Natural Hair Color

Christmas Day, 2016. Today’s the day. I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time and I’m finally doing it. Glancing towards the bathroom counter, I reach for the round white box of henna and look at the label: red. Carefully unscrewing the lid on the small plastic container, I peer inside it. I wrinkle my nose as I brush the bits of greenish powder off my fingers and dump the contents into the mixing bowl. My wet hair is dripping gently on my back and the fog from the shower still hangs thick in the air, breaking up into a soft mist. Slowly and cautiously I drizzle the hot water into the bowl over the henna, watching as it turns into a thick green-brown paste. The smell of herbs is strong and somewhat unpleasant, and the appearance isn’t too appealing either, reminding me of goose piles on the sidewalks. The smell and the look resonate with me right now. It’s been a rough couple of weeks. I’m home from college for Christmas break; I just finished my first semester and it was a doozy. I don’t really have a better way to describe it; it was intense. Terrifying. Heartbreaking. Awakening. I learned more about myself in three months than I had learned in 19 years, and I was still learning more. I knew college would be hard. I didn’t have any way of knowing I’d spend so much time having violent panic attacks. I didn’t know I’d understand the painful truths of things that happened to me. I didn’t know I’d be miserable enough to try to kill myself. But this was a fresh start. I’m starting over for good this time, because starting college wasn’t enough of a new start for me. I want something more, something solid, something that made me feel like a different person; something for good. I wanted people to look at me and see my fierceness, my strength, my ability to get back up again when I fell down and keep going after fighting a battle. My mixture is ready. I pick up the bowl and lean over the bathtub. Lowering my head, I sink my fingers into the sultry-looking henna and grab it in handfuls, running it through my hair and over my head. It squishes through my hands, staining them a wild orange as I spread the herbs through the massive waterfall that is my long, thick hair. For an hour and a half I wait, the mixture getting cold and grody underneath the plastic bag that holds my hair in place. Finally I return to the bathroom and untie my hair, releasing it into the abyss to rinse out the clumps of used henna. Waiting for my hair to dry takes an age, but when I finally look in the mirror a few hours later, I see my dream come true. Long, luscious red hair flows down my frame. The moment I see my reflection I know there’s no going back; I’m a redhead now. I see a warrior leaving battle victorious; a phoenix rising from ashes. I see me. Me for who I really am. I have no idea of knowing what the hell is ahead of me but I’m ready to face it now. Somehow I feel stronger and more beautiful than before. When I return to campus my new professors and many of my peers tell me how lovely my hair is and think I was born that way. I smile quietly to myself and let them compliment me, knowing something they don’t. Red is not my natural hair color.