THERAPY

It’s been two weeks and I still don’t like my hair.

It’s not growing on me.

Although hopefully it is growing.

I’m ok though.

I happen to know this isn’t all about my hair. And keeping my hair this color is a little bit of therapy.

I mean there’s no question this is much-needed therapy for my over-stressed, over-processed hair. It’s been begging for some serious lovin’. Actually it was getting downright belligerent about it, barely letting me get a comb through. Call me a pushover, but I finally gave my hair what it’s been asking for: Please, chop off the fried parts, coat those hair shafts with a dark color, and lather on the Moroccan Oil as often as possible, thank you!

So there’s that.

And then there’s that other kind of therapy, the kind I get with Miss Sarah.

My weekly visit with her is just a tad more important than my hair these days and, holy huge chunk of my check, it’s not free. It’s so, so, so worth it. But so not free. Part of this dark-hair thing is about dark roots I’ve struggled with for ages. That’s why, for at least a little while, I’m choosing to stop coloring my dark roots light (a constant battle, which, let’s be honest, I didn’t do very well anyway) and put that money toward eradicating a few other dark roots in my life—the ones I am sick and tired of tripping over in my relationships and my own journey through life. It’s time. It’s happening. Progress has been made, and I can even see some sort of light at the end of this tunnel. But I’m right in the middle of the tunnel and I’m not stopping now. There’s more work to be done.

So, for now, I’m sacrificing light hair in the hopes of a lighter heart.

There’s also this:

I can’t deny that just simply walking around with this hair I don’t really like—hair that makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, and less attractive, and not like myself—is some sort of therapy. What I know in my head is this: We are not our hair. We can cut our hair, color it, style it, even lose it. That doesn’t change or make who we are. At least it shouldn’t, right?? But—I’m sorry, I just have to be honest—it sure can feel like it.

The truth is: I am not a blonde. I am not a brunette. I am Julie. This season is making me remember and practice that point a little bit more. It’s actually forcing me to figure out who Julie is. And to like her anyway.

That’s probably some pretty important therapy right there.

by julie rybarczyk