I was sitting at Center Stage having spiral curls twisted into my Celtic-red colored hair, and watching the stylist across the room blow out the hair of a woman with hair so pink that all the pink crayons in the universe looked cheap by comparison. The style was simple, the hair, glossy and healthy. The color was pink. Unabashedly pink. It stuck in my head, in my heart. Someday, I said, I would have the same color.
I went home that night and told my husband what I’d seen, what I wanted. “Your hair is beautiful the way it is,” he said.
But that wasn’t the point.
Pink hair is a statement. Even if the statement is one you make only to yourself.
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