There’s No Such Thing As A Natural Blonde

…well, not in my case anyway.

Last time we talked hair, it was after session two of the bleaching triptych. I was definitely blonde, if a bit overly “gold” (as they say in the trade). Put it this way, after four weeks of yellow locks, I was looking forward to going lighter.

I set off to the salon, clutching armfuls of ripped up magazine photos, and high hopes. After a quick “yeah, that colour’s not too complementary” consultation, it was decided that bleaching the whole lot was the only way to get out the banana-ey bits. Cue comedy paste and shower cap shot.

Up to this point, I’ve forgotten to mention that all of my appointments have been in the (late) afternoon. Whilst on the one hand it means you can enjoy the complementary wine (and I’ll admit, much wine was had to calm my nerves this time around), the downside is that it’s impossible to truly see what colour you’ve got till the sun comes up the next day.

What happened in the next twelve hours still inspires a mixture of embarrassment, weepiness and “I can’t go out ever again” type feelings. But after roughly three weeks, I feel like I can finally talk about it. And I now know there is such a thing as Too Much Peroxide.

Post-shower cap, post-rinsing, post-toning, I definitely had lighter hair. I had asked for “whiter tones” and I certainly got what I had asked for. There was a hint of Rutger Hauer circa ‘Bladerunner’ about the look, but giddy on bleach and wine fumes I went with “Ice Cool Scandinavian” instead.

But just before bed, I caught sight of a bit of yellow in the mirror. Along with a bit of grey, and some black stubbly looking bits around the hairline. My platinum nerve buckled, and one sleepless night later, I was in full on panic mode. Andy had the joy of waking up to a hysterical girlfriend, and no amount of “maybe you should give it a few days before you decide you don’t like it” logic was sticking.

Solid peroxide blond is a hard thing to pull off, even given the best colorist and hair that hasn’t been lifted from jet black in the course of a month. With enough blue shampoo, and a couple of compliments, maybe I would have come around to the finished product. But as we were leaving San Diego a day or so later for good, it was now or never in terms of correction. And as I headed out on a stealth mission to the hair supplies shop, I felt the wrong kind of “striking”. Cue one very uncomfortable “I just don’t like how this has turned out” conversation with the hairdresser.

All credit to her, she stayed for about three hours post-closing on a Saturday night, adding in lowlights and de-yellowing toner no less than four times before we got to a dirty blonde compromise point.

Secretly I hope that three months in sunny Asia (yeah, I haven’t mentioned that bit either) will lift the dark bits, but this golden child looks better with a side order of roots and tarnish.

Blonde and Blonder

I mentioned back here how I was getting braver on the mats.

I couldn’t have predicted it, but the combination of gruelling training pace and endless supply of arse-kicking world champions is strangely liberating. Pretty soon you realise that there’s a place beyond “it’s over” (whether for hydration, exhaustion or depression reasons), a place where you carry on anyway. God knows it’s not skilled or pretty, but it definitely exists, and in a weird way I suspect it might be good for you.

And it’s an attitude that’s extended beyond the gym.

In typical chicken and egg fashion, it’s impossible to tell whether the training, or the chucking everything away and travelling across the planet to do it, kicked off the change, but I’m learning not to fall at the first hurdle. The inclination to chuck plans and schemes into the bin as soon as someone says “but wouldn’t that (insert concern here)…” is still very much ingrained, but I’m starting to take a step back, weigh up the options, and in a lot of cases, find a way around it. Or just do it anyway.

And post-tattoo, this mid-life rebellion has lead me straight to the bleach bottle.

For those that don’t know me personally, I’ve always been a dark creature. By birth brunette, I had a brief wash-in plum phase in my twenties, and have spent the last decade or so with jet black locks. Personality-wise too, I’ve proudly erred away from traditional “girly” and towards the alternative.

So, in no particular order, here are the reasons I shouldn’t go blonde:

1) I have so much black dye in my hair, it’s going to take several bleaching sessions to get it up to the colour I want it (ideally platinum, but will settle for that light “inside of a banana” colour they so rave about on hair websites.)

2) During that process, my hair could go dark red, bright orange, and dark blonde, none of which are colours that I aspire to.

3) It will totally fry the condition and my bank balance.

4) Having big, heavy boys, and smaller, technical girls, hang off my head in BJJ isn’t going to help that.

5) Nothing in my makeup/wardrobe/demeanor matches a sunny yellow-headed type.

So, those are the reasons why not to. Weighing up the “for” options:

1) Ever since I wore a light wig at a fancy dress party, and boys were especially nice to me for 15 minutes, I’ve wondered if the blonder types really do have more fun.

2) In addition, I have an instant crush on anyone rocking the punky blonde thing.

3) Whilst not cheap, it is substantially cheaper to go to the hairdressers repeatedly in California than in London.

4) Andy and an entire school-full of BJJ folk are the only people who will see me whilst I’m transitioning. No rocking up at the office with ever-changing fuzz on my barnet.

5) I’m going grey anyway, so “natural” isn’t really an option anymore.

A more sensible person would probably have seen a bit of shakiness in some of the “pros” but heck, sensible people don’t generally jet off around the world on a whim. Bring on the peroxide.

So far, I have spent about 8 hours in the hairdressers (4.5 hours the first time, 3.5 hours the second). I have had several turkeys’ worth of tinfoil layered all over my head in varying different patterns. I somehow skipped the deep red phase, but landed slap bang in carrot orange territory. And I am possibly paying for my hairdresser’s soon-to-be-born child to go through college.

The results? Well, the first time I had it done, I jumped every time I saw myself in a mirror. Despite living in the land of the blondes, I still feel like I’m subconsciously shouting “look at me, look at me” just by walking down the street. After a lifetime in the shade, the bright side is a bit of a shock to the system. And I’m now eying those neon items in my wardrobe with caution.

There’s one more bleaching session to go, next Friday. Before then, I need to get some moisture back into my frazzled hair – which means most evenings are spent plastered in goo and residing under a shower cap (lucky Andy).

Any initial shyness at unveiling a whole new hair colour twice at the gym will soon be overruled by my needing to wear a lycra swimming hat during sparring – at best, my hair ends up looking like this post-training, at worst it’s been shedding all over the mat.

Some days I love it, some days it bugs the hell out of me, but this trip is all about getting braver and breaking free of some of those “I can’t possibly…” patterns.

I’ll keep you updated.