Why My Hair is Brown

I’ve been a blonde of one shade or another for a long time – dark blonde, streaky blonde, platinum blonde. Except for that time in my twenties that I used a “temporary” dye on my hair – taillight red, no less – as part of a Halloween costume. It didn’t wash out in six washings as promised and I was a fading red head all winter.


At some point I decided that my natural hair color just didn’t suit me. Dishwater blonde, light brown, mousy brown –who wants to be “mousy”? Not me.


And yet, getting my hair colored has always been one of my least favorite things to do. I have a super-sensitive scalp and I really disliked sitting in the chair, smelling all the chemicals, and trying to be polite and make small talk with someone while they pulled my hair and wrapped it in pieces of tinfoil.


I did like the result, though: beautiful natural-looking blonde hair. It definitely worked for my ego to be “the shiniest object in the room”.


But the last few times I went in to get my hair “blonded” the little voice inside me was saying, “Really? You’re really going to do this, again?” “Are you sure this is who you are now?”

And The Universe was sending me subtle messages. Someone posted a color photo from high school that included me and I thought, “Huh. My hair doesn’t look that bad. It’s actually kind of pretty.” There was the study that said stylists have a 23 percent higher chance of ending up with cancer or dementia. And a friend posted about her mother with Alzheimer’s and how much worse she was after having her hair dyed. Yikes!


And then there was the last time. The last straw. The last hurrah.


The San Francisco hairdresser was cranky and rushed, the shop was loud, and even thought I asked to not have my hair brushed constantly while it was blow-dried (What is up with that?), I suffered through the full blow-out process with not one, but two assistants. I was angry and I just wanted to get out of there. Then, after two hours – the topper of all toppers – the credit card machine was slow and I got a parking ticket. Add an extra $60 to that already outrageously expensive blonde hair investment. The Universe knows how to get me to listen.


I got in my car and said, out loud, so The Universe would be sure to hear, “That was the LAST time.”


So, six weeks later, I was back in the chair with a new mission: To return my hair to its natural color. A simple process, I figured. 45 minutes later, I had light brown hair.

When my stylist was done, she said, “What do you think?” I said, “It’s great!” and smiled.

But what was going on inside was a whole different story.

It looked exactly like it was supposed to – and I looked completely different. Wow. That brown frame made my face show. And my wrinkles show. And every imperfection in my skin show. My ego was not impressed. Over the next few days, I looked in the mirror a lot while coming to terms with me “au naturale”.


It was an interesting process. What I figured out was I hadn’t been seeing “me” – the 51-year-old me – when I looked in the mirror. I had only been seeing my long blonde hair and the overall impression of me.


I looked at my face a lot. Really looked, up close, and from a distance. My skin is looser. I have more wrinkles. My skin tone is uneven because of all the time I’ve spent in the sun. Which, by the way, I wouldn’t trade for anything!

Most of my best memories take place in the sun. Swimming with my dad and brothers; laying in the sun on the deck at the cabin, or on the back patio, chatting with my mom; fishing, gardening and hiking with my grandpa; seeing Machu Picchu from the Sun Gate; enjoying my kids when they were small; playing in the park with my grandson. Good stuff, all those memories.


I was just getting used to it. This current me, with this face I had forgotten to look at.


Then, there was a problem. In certain light, or wearing certain colors, the middle part of my hair, not the crown or the ends – just the middle six inches or so – looked kind-of mossy green, and sometimes slightly blue. This mess was turning into another color that my hair wasn’t. Not good. I was going to have to go back. AGAIN.

It took not just one, but two returns to the chair, and two stylists, to be done with it. Not to mention the $240 – yes that Two Hundred and Forty Dollars that it took to fix it. Needless to say, I got the message.


My real hair color is beautiful. Just like it is. And so am I.


I would love to hear your thoughts. Please share below.







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This story was written by Tamara Cameron of Health Harvest Holistic Wellness. Tamara is dedicated to helping people raise the bar on their everyday health and grow younger. You can read more about Tamara at: www.health-harvest.com.

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3 Responses

  1. Bestie says:

    Beautiful You. 🙂

  2. Karyn Myers says:

    Yes! Tamara, I hear you! Three years ago, I decided to let my hair go natural…it was a surprise..more Grey than I expected. Now, I love my short gray hair. It is all mine; I have earned this beautiful head if hair. Enjoy your beautiful head of hair! Thank you for listening to the Universe!!!
    Cheers to rocking what God gave you

    • Tamara Cameron says:

      Karyn, it will be interesting to see how I feel about grey. None yet, but both my parents went grey, so I’m sure it’s in my future. 🙂

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