haircut hiatus.

I've been on one for nearly 8 weeks. That's two full months for my lovely locks to grow wild and free. As it turns out, the end result of this organic freedom is... not so lovely.

This may come as a shock, so brace yourself: I'm not naturally blonde. Sure, there was a time in my life when my hair was light and fair and untouched by harsh chemicals, but those low-maintenance days live in yesteryear with training bras and Giga Pets. I got my first highlight in sixth grade (a tactic my mother and hair dresser used to distract me from my fantasy perm), and since then my hair has been chemically enhanced on a regular basis. From bombshell blonde to chocolatey brunette to an ill-advised jaunt with red, my scalp has endured them all.

I love a good hair cut and color. From the moment I lay my head back into that big black sink to the moment the hair dresser spins me around and introduces me to my new 'do, I love the entire process. And the best part about hair: it grows back. No matter what color or cut, it'll grow out... eventually. When I need to express myself, I change up my hair; a tattoo is forever, a haircut is for 6 weeks max.

Right now, I'm in the process of growing my hair out. My hair is deceptively thin, so I've kept it pretty short my entire life. My hair is currently at it's most troublesome length, the length at which I usually cut it off after a spur-of-the-moment decision in the salon chair. It grazes my collarbones in a way that keeps me constantly aware of its presence. So I run my fingers through it. Constantly. The touch factor makes the ends stringier than they really are, so at the end of the day I see hair that's not nearly as cute as it was hours before. And that inspires me to just hack it off. Once hacked off, I can't curl my hair or throw it up in a ponytail, so I decide to grow it out once again. It's a vicious, vicious cycle.

Knowing myself like I do, I go for a preventive strategy: just don't go to the salon. For the sake of growth, this is a brilliant plan. But let's get back to my color issue. I mentioned that my hair's not naturally blonde; it's safe to say that my natural hair color is far from blonde. In 8 weeks, my hair grows a little over an inch. Lengthwise, it's a small victory. Color-wise, not so much. One inch of dark brown roots at the top of my heads is not my idea of glamorous (I don't care what you say, Lauren Conrad; it's not cute), and don't get me started on how time yellows highlights.

Recent comments:
Just as a simple greeting, "Hey Lindsey, your hair's turning black."
And when saying that, as the only blonde at the table, I was the minority member a friend gently reminded me, "Well, you're really only about 90% blonde."

So it's a trade-off. My growth strategy is working brilliantly, and I'm even training myself to stop messing with the ends that touch my shoulders. In the color department, though... it's getting a little gross. This weekend, that comes to an end. Saturday morning, I'm going to relax under a heater while dangerous chemicals and sheets of aluminum foil toast and bleach my hair within an inch of its life... and then I'll resist the urge (I must resist the urge, I must resist the urge....) to cut it off.

Then, a few months from now when you least expect it, I'll chop it off on a whim and dye it brown. Just whenever the mood strikes me.


Dark + Long


Blondish-Brown + Long


Blonde + Long

And that's as long as it gets before...



But before you know it...


I omitted pictures of red-headed Lindsey because it's not a road I want to go down again. But you get the point. I have hair Turrets. But this is my public declaration, so hold me to it: I'm going to grow out my hair and stay blonde at least until Christmas.

And I'm going to become a runner...

And I'm going to give up chocolate...

And I'm going to finish homework in advance, not the day of...

And I'm going to lose 10 pounds...

And I'm going to learn how to play the guitar and harmonize...