So I dyed my hair… and it didn’t go well at all.

I’ve been dyeing my hair black for five years. Yes, five years. That’s half a decade of black hair dye to match my smokey eyes and dark tans from 12th grade until the end of college. Since I went to Penn State, it made me look like everyone else. I liked that feeling. It made me feel more safe, more put together. “The Jersey Girl Look” people would call it.

No, I’m not having a quarter life crisis. No, I’m not having an identity crisis. I just wanted to see me again. Not the version I became for survival. Not the girl who dyed her hair to feel powerful after heartbreaks. Not the one who used jet black dye like it was armor. I wanted to strip it all back.

So, obviously, I did what any rational person would do and bleached it.

I swear I’m not having a crisis… but I was when I took off the foils after round one. Let’s just say, it looked like my hair was dipped in Red 40.

Now listen, I’ve done my hair before. This isn’t my first time bleaching my hair but damn I looked stupid. Apparently five years of black dye doesn’t just let go. It clings to you like your toxic ex who left you for a girl with a bigger ass but regrets it after seeing you thriving.

Let me tell you something about trying to strip black box dye out of your hair: it’s violent. It’s emotional. It’s 45 minutes of praying to a God you don’t believe in while your scalp tingles and your hair screams, “Hun, you sure about this?” And if you think that’s bad, try bleaching it more than one round.

Somewhere in the middle of watching the black melt out of my strands like trauma leaving my body, I had this weird, borderline spiritual moment. I realized I wasn’t just bleaching my hair, I was shedding something. It felt like I was a reptile shedding its skin. I wonder if this is how a uterus feels after you’re a good girl (or lucky one) and don’t get pregnant. I swear every layer of pigment that lifted felt like I was letting go of a piece of my past. Not in a bad way though.

There’s something so beautiful about stripping away the negativity that you hold without even knowing it. It is powerful.

Let’s be honest, hair is emotional support.

We’ve all had this moment of crying in the shower, screaming into a pillow, doom scrolling through TikTok for 6 hours, and then BAM!! You’re on Amazon buying a box of dye or bleach like it’s going to unlock the next chapter of your life. Or better yet, you grab your kitchen scissors and chop off your beautiful locks. We’ve all tried getting bangs this way. Don’t lie to me.

Honestly though, it does unlock the next chapter.

I didn’t dye my hair to make my ex come back. I didn’t dye my hair to bring back the man I was in love with for 4 years (still convinced he’s my husband but that’s another blog for another day (probably tomorrow)).

I did it for me. I wanted to feel like ME again. I was tired of wishing I was still that girl. Tired of performing the cool, chill, unfazed version of me while dying inside. Tired of waiting for someone to choose me when I hadn’t even chosen myself in months. So, yeah. I dyed it for the girl who almost didn’t stay. For the girl who smiled through the heartbreak, who answered texts she should’ve blocked, who kept showing up for people who wouldn’t cross the street for her. Let me just say, she’s so happy I did it.

If you’re reading this and you’ve been feeling like a shell of yourself, go dye your fucking hair.
Not for the aesthetic. Not for social media. But because doing something for YOU, even something chaotic and semi-permanent, is a big fucking deal when you’ve spent the past few months just surviving. And you know what makes it even better? Something that makes it extra juicy and sexy? You’re choosing yourself. When no one else is. When no one’s clapping. When your world is silent except for your own heartbeat and your brain screaming, “I CAN’T DO THIS CRAP ANYMORE. I WANT THIS FEELING TO GO AWAY.” That’s when the real transformation happens.

This isn’t about erasing the past. This isn’t about revenge. This is about resurrection and taking your power back. It’s about saying: “Hey everyone! I’m still here! I’m still fighting! It’s time for me to start truly living life and I’m doing it as the most unhinged, radiant, unapologetic version of me possible!”

It’s looking at that person staring at you in the mirror and realizing, you’re glad they stayed. They almost didn’t.

You don’t need permission to take your power back. You don’t need closure from anyone who couldn’t love you properly (they didn’t deserve you anyways). You just need one moment of radical, reckless self-love… And maybe a towel you don’t mind ruining.

And look, hair grows back. Mistakes can be toned just make sure you top your hairstylist a hefty amount if you act like she’s a therapist (and bring her a drink from starbucks/dunkin… she’s going to need it). But the act of choosing to accept what;s that is that and move on, that stays with you. No one can tone away you choosing yourself.

So if no one’s told you lately: I’m glad you stayed. Even when it was ugly. Even when it felt pointless. Even when the only thing you could change about your life was your damn hair. Because guess what? That was the start of everything. So if you’re feeling like I did today and wanted to reclaim yourself, dye your hair. Chop it off. DO IT. Reinvent and reclaim yourself. Because sometimes lifting color is more than what it seems. It might just lift your soul as well.

Keep spilling babes, xx.

P.S. I’m brunette again and I’m so fucking back baby.