Problem with Hair

     When I was young I had beautiful Barbie-like blond hair. There was no question in mine or anybody else’s mind that my hair was truly blonde, and everyone including me was okay with it.
     But my eastern-European genes didn’t want to be denied so easily. By the time I was 14-years-old, my hair started turning red. By-and-by I had pretty strawberry-blonde hair. I started liking my new hair color even more than my former mop. Heck, everybody around me was either a blonde and/or a brunette, and so I felt special and pretty unique as a redhead in the sea of regular hair. I finally started laughing at those stupid blonde jokes, because they didn’t make me mad anymore.
     A few more years rolled by, and my hair color started to sort of change again, to my astonishment. This time it seemed to darken, so it went from strawberry blonde to red-brown-blonde color. The best that it could be described was golden or copper. And this is where my troubles with hair began. I was no longer able to identify my hair color, and nobody else was either. Stuff like that tears me up, because I am that kind of a person, who needs certainty in her life. For me, everything should be organized, properly labeled and put into its respective cubby hole.
     Suddenly people started telling me that I have “unusual” or “unique” hair. When I asked them what color it is, they’d name a variety of shades and hues, not being able to give me a definite answer. This irritated me to no end. I liked my hair, but I wanted to be able to identify it.
     One time I was in the bathroom trying to color my hair. I guess I wanted a different color of hair for a while just to say that I have a particular hair color at least for now. My hubby saw me pulling out the bottle of Clairol, and a most interesting conversation took place.
     “What’re you gonna do with that?”
     “Color my hair.”
     “Why?”
     “Can’t I change my hair color when I feel like it?”
     He explained to me that a hair color such as mine would be a crime to destroy, which made me feel pretty good. So, just to make him happy, I didn’t color my hair. After all, I am also particular when it comes to cutting his hair- chop off too much of his mid-length wavy locks, and I throw a fit. He’s learned to ask me how much he can cut off before every haircut from then on.
     These days, I am still funny about my hair color, but not as much as before. Now I just set people straight when they tell me that my hair is “blonde” or “strawberry blonde.” No, I tell them, it’s definitely copper-golden-blonde. And yes, it’s my natural color of hair. Let them ponder this one!