Will I stop having more fun?

I have a confession to make.

I'm not a blonde.

Well, at least not anymore. For years, I've tiptoed that fine line between blonde and brunette, covering my natural dirty-blonde hair with enough peroxide to kill a horse. I've high-lighted, low-lighted and straight-up dyed my hair regularly for the last 15 years. And I've decided that enough might just be enough.

It started off innocently enough. When I was in high school, I went to the salon for a few highlights. No big deal. In fact, a huge treat for a 15 year old. I totally recommend it. However, once you get started, it is really hard to stop. By the time I was a senior, my hair was approaching platinum blonde.

(A side note, and something that is probably just in my head. I seem to drive hairdressers insane. Every single time I've found a great stylist and we've worked out an arrangement on how I want my hair cut and colored, we get along famously for about three sessions and then her whole life implodes. Unwanted pregnancies, divorces, nervous breakdowns, you name it. And along with her life, my hair takes a turn in the dumper. I cannot tell you the number of times I have sat in stylist's chair, watching hair that previously looked just fine turn into straw-colored, poorly-cut sticks while she sobbed and told me all her problems. I have implemented a three strikes policy to help everyone. Three styles and I'm out. I simply find a new stylist and leave the previous one to her happy, healthy life and my hair intact. I'm on my fourth stylist since moving to Cincinnati, but that's okay with me.)

The problem with hair color, though, is you have to maintain it. I'm lazy when it comes to these things, and terribly cheap. I hate that I have to spend $100 to get my hair cut and colored. And that, in order to look like a normal human who cares about her hair, I have to go at least every two months. (Really, I should go every six weeks, but who has that kind of money or time? Or discipline?) The bottom line is, as I get older, my natural hair color gets darker and I become less motivated to do anything about it. I walk around most of the time embarrassed by my reverse Mohawk but unwilling to shell out the cash to fix it. Which kind of hampers my social life. It's bad enough that none of my clothes fit properly and I have the acne of a 13 year old boy. Add regrowth to that and you might as well sign me up for Meals on Wheels, because I'm never leaving the house.

So in order to facilitate a little more socialization AND save money and time, I've decided to just embrace something closer to my natural color. It can't be that bad. Some of my best friends are brunette and they seem to have a lot more fun than I do. My mom is a even brunette now and it looks great. (And she was platinum blonde her senior year, too. So there.)

I've scheduled an appointment today with Bambi (she of the August bubble-do - she's got one strike down and two to go) and I'm going to tell her to make my hair darker. It won't be easy, and I'm sure it will take an adjustment, but between these crazy dark roots and the fact that the pregnancy has made my hair grow like one of those dolls whose arm you turn (you remember those, right? You could cut their hair and stuff) I just can't keep up with this regrowth anymore. I get one week of decent highlights and two months of wearing hats. And I don't look good in hats.

The really interesting thing will be when the baby is born. Chances are it will have dark hair like Tony, but if it comes out blonde and both of us are brunette, the rumors are really going to start. I'm going to tell everyone my personal trainer is named Sven and let them draw their own conclusions.