I try to be daring. I really do.
The counselor who led me through cognitive therapy told me once that at my core, deep inside my very truest self, I am “fearless.”

I want to squeeze onto this truth as I look in the mirror this morning, but I’m tempted to call her a bold-faced liar.

15 hours earlier…

We look like a scene from Steel Magnolias, without the accents. I am caped to the neck and making it clear that I want nothing to do with the black shade that drapes over me. But I’m confident of what I do want and sure that in no time I’ll be leaving men and women alike, paralyzed in their steps with my magnificent hair. It will flow and shine and leave everyone breathless.

My stylist, she’s perfection. She knows what I want more than I know what I want. So when she draws her finger to her lips to help soften what she’s about to say, I trust her.
“I’m going to bring you up a shade so you’re not too dark.” She knew. Oh, she knew.

I don’t walk over these cliffs alone. I’ve gotten one of my good friends hooked to the magic of my stylist too, and every time we go in, we go together. We grab coffee, catch up, transform.

Normally my general theme to all my decisions in this department is natural. Do this, but make it really natural.

My friend? It’s never purple enough. She’s actually counting down the days for her first child to be born so that she can get genuine purple highlights while she’s on maternity leave, which she can’t do while she’s working. This is good for me. It pushes me out of my comfort zone, which for some reason I decided to bulldoze through yesterday.

I e-mailed pictures of what I wanted a week ago. Brunette, fall-inspired, and not a speck of bleach left. She mixed, applied, rinsed, toned, rinsed, washed…it was exactly like the image. However, I seem to often forget that face-shape, skin tone, and air-brushing are not included in her services. No matter, it is rich and beautiful, and I’m trying to adjust.

When I got home I put Chase on those awful hot coals of marriage.
“You like it?”
“Yeah,” he said with force. “I like the blonde better.”
Nice effort. After 12 years I know what this means. He’s probably thinking Well, after 12 years you should know not to ask if you don’t want the risk of honesty. (*sigh*) Ultimately, I do.

This morning as I’m still on my pillow breathing the fire of sleepy breath and breaking up fights with my eyes closed, I think that maybe the mirror betrayed me last night. It will be better now, in the light. Of course, morning presents me with no make-up, smashed locks in the shape of my neck, and to add to it, I’m losing my summer glow. I feel gothic, and I’m questioning every sense of knowing myself I’ve ever had.

I wrap up my youngest in her blankie, scoop her into me and turn around to my son, stark naked in the doorway. He’s embarrassed about this, and yet wildly proud all the same.
“I like your hair, Mom.”
“Do you?” I run my hand over the top of my head. “I’m not sure I do. It might be kind of dark.”
“Well I think it’s just right.”

Bless you, Dear One.

I’ve thought about this while he’s been scribbling his pencil at school. It is just right. It’s a great time to take a risk, get out of the rut of routine for once, find out that for certain I will not pick this color again. I mean, now I know. I don’t have to wonder or regret that I never tried this new me that will not stay the new me. All is not lost.

I’m going to rock this mocha red hair until my next appointment. I can change it when I go back. Who knows? Maybe by then I won’t want to. Maybe by then it will feel just right.