I sported pale blond locks as a toddler, but my hair darkened to a dirty blond as I aged. By senior year, I had discovered Sun In at my local CVS. The product provides an effortless way to lighten and bleach hair, just spray on and sit outside. The sun does the rest. Sun In was my gateway drug to hair dye.
We all have attributes that we find attractive in other people. I am a sucker for well-developed calf muscles—probably from my years as a dancer—and red hair. I am not sure when I became aware of my red hair obsession, but it’s been around for a long time. The hero of Caddie Woodlawn by Carol Ryrie Brink, a book I read in fourth grade, was a fiery redhead. My first high school crush had red hair. And then, in February 1986, during my senior year, I watched Anne of Green Gables on PBS’s Wonderworks series. I don’t know how I managed to miss reading any of L. M. M. Montgomery’s books when I was younger, but when Megan Fellows walked across my television screen, I was hooked. My experimentation with red hair dye began a few months later, once I went away to college.
I brought Sun In with me to UMass, but at some point, I decided to experiment with L’Oreal or Revlon home dye products. I enlisted the aid of my roommate, Leigh Ann, to apply the paste on several occasions. Our communal dorm bathroom possessed a tub room. No one was brave enough to take an actual bath in that tub. It was used more often to hold ice and alcohol, but it was sanitary enough for applying hair dye while kneeling beside the tub and leaning over the edge.
After I graduated from UMass, I studied costume design at the University of Michigan. I continued to dye my hair red, but no longer relied on the over-the-counter boxed dyes. One of the advantages of being a costume designer was access to hair and wig professionals. A few local stylists worked for the theatre department on a show by show basis. Some productions required a variety of historical haircuts, like Saroyan’s The Time of Your Life, set in 1939. All the male actors received 1930s era trims appropriate for the show. One of the female actors cut off her waist length hair for a bit part in the production, much to the shock of everyone. Once in a blue moon, a lead actor needed to dye their hair, instead of wearing a wig. The stylists were always on the lookout for extra income and they would offer me steep discounts to color my hair.
One cold day, as I walked down E. Huron Street, away from the Power Center for the Performing Arts, an elderly gentleman approached me. My hair lengthened during the years at UMass, and by the time I lived in Ann Arbor, my hair reached my waist. Sometimes I let my hair escape unbound without pins or clips. That day, long strands cascaded over my scarf and fanned down my shoulders. The weak sunlight accentuated the red highlights.
“Your hair is beautiful,” he said, with a faint Irish lilt to his voice. “Red hair is so rare. You don’t see it very often anymore.”
He may have reached out to touch my hair. I didn’t stop him. I thanked him for his compliments and bid him a good day. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my red hair was an illusion, procured for a few dollars in a stylist’s chair.
To be continued…