Hair, the 1967 musical celebrating all that was the drum-roll to that Summer of Love that has taken its place in our collective history as the days that allowed us to ditch our business ties or aprons, and take to the fields clad in flowing florals to quite literally let our hair down. Being a Pisces this age of Aquarius is not something I would have been all that ecstatic for, but a hair revolution: sign me up.
My hair has always been my crowning glory since it places me among the lucky few of us able to declare ourselves as ginger. Screw being one of the 1%, we are the 2%. My copper rills do tent to set me out from a typical crowd, and the lack of soul does tend to lower the risk of deals with the devil. No soul, no sale. Other ginger stereotypes include bad tempers, increased libido and freckles, none of which I can argue with in all honesty.
Tasked with this auburn pogonotrophy, as a chubby, buck-toothed preteen I chose to grow it down to my shoulders in a time in my history that I refer to as the ‘Hanson no Handsome’ years. Evidence of these years still exists (despite my best efforts) in school pictures to which my poor parents were obliged to give pride of place to, on our mantelpiece. It was later revealed that it was merely an efficient way to scare young children away from a burning fire. Ouch dad, burn.
Moving on, a self-hating teenager thought dying my hair would make me far more attractive. Not one to do anything half-heartily, I decided to turn up to a large family function sporting the latest in Nazi Youth chic. My mother who was meeting us there was greeted by a peroxide mess, who was relishing in the scandal of his new do. Pictures of this time exist all over my online profiles since my family’s disapproval wasn’t enough for my teenage self. This recent act of self-inflicted hideousness needed to go nation-wide, apparently. It soon grew out and faded thank heavens, and was soon resembling the very popular ice-tips sported by many a ’90s boy bands, which (at the time) I didn’t hate. Yet, much like a crack-whore, once I smelt those chemicals, I was hooked. Dying my hair was going to be my new thing. The new multi-shaded me.
This all came suddenly crashing down around me one fateful night in the April of 2014. Here is an exclusive look into that night. A night that will live on in infamy. A night that changed the fabric of reality itself. Here, my friends is the real story behind that night. Here is the story of how I… was balded.
It was night, with my bright room being reflected harshly on my bedroom window against the darkness outside. This was the night that I was to re-brunette myself, as I did some months before to great success and many a compliment. I cloaked myself in the finest of Matalan towels and proceeded to the bathroom; Hair dye in hand. As I did those months ago, I mixed the chemical concoction in the all too familiar polythene bottle and proceeded to lather my scalp. There was nothing to do now but wait. I passed my 20-40 minutes with a meal of ready salted crisps and chocolate bourbons, and an episode of Friends. Finally, the moment of truth had arrived. The time… to rinse. Instantly, I could feel it hadn’t gone according to plan. The strands of hair which dangled before my eyes were strangely vibrant, with shades of a deep magenta. Denial is a powerful thing. I was certain once the hair was dry, all would be well. Back in my room, post-blow-dry, I approached my mirror. Staring back at me was a dark purple haired emo who one would presume had a passion for bad electronic music and self-harming. It was all too much to bear. The Friends episode continued to play, ironic now since with this look I was certain never to have any. There was but one resolution: THE GUILLOTINE. Well, not quite… the hair trimmer. As each cluster of hair fell, much like Samson, my strength fell with it.
I wore hats for a solid week, hiding my head as one might hide the attached remnants of a twin one absorbed in the womb. After an empowering Instagram post, declaring my baldness and my Britney-esque breakdown, I was once again ready to go out in public. I swore never again to tamper with my gingerness, it was here to stay. I was once again ready to embrace my copper locks.
This was The Dawning of the Age of Auburnius, and in the words of that 1967 naked, hairy Off-Broadway chorus: Let the Sunshine in!
Ifan Llewelyn 