Ramblings of a Coffee Addict

Cue Ball, Odd Ball, & Snow Ball

When I was little, I was obsessed with the differences in my grandparents' hair. There was gray-black, a light brown-blonde poof, gray-brown with tight tiny curls, and a bald head! Over time, both of my grandmothers' hair turned light gray and stayed that way because it was easier than dying it every week but my grandfather's hair (the one with hair of course), turned bright snow white. I thought his hair was beautiful and hoped that someday when I was old and crispy like him, that I would have snow-white hair too.

In middle school, kids started dying their hair. It was the early 2000s and chunky highlights for girls and frosted tips for boys were all the rage. Looking back, I'm thankful that I never partook in this particular trend. My virgin mousy brown straight hair managed to evade the dye but somehow underwent a perm in 7th grade. My mom was getting her very similar hair permed regularly and thought it would be fun for me to have "hair with body". Spoiler alert. I hate doing my hair. It's stick straight and I don't even take the time to blow-dry it. I get bored so I let it dangle wet against the nape of my neck and dry naturally.

Thankfully the perm did no lasting damage to my hair or nonexistent reputation and eventually, my mom took me to her new hair guy for natural-looking highlights. I think it's sad that women spend so much money on products and services to look more "natural" but that's a story for another day. The hairdresser was a tall man in his mid-50s with lovely long flowing blonde hair and an androgynous style of dress. He was effeminate and I found a social profile for him as a drag queen online. He had the right facial features to pull off the intense make-up.

He was a wizard with highlights and charged a very reasonable rate of $60-$70 (cash or check only please) which was half the price of anyone else and a steal. He rented a stall in a dirty and sketchy establishment and as the client, you were expected to help. We spent many hours gossiping about pop culture, scary movies, going out, and his cats while he highlighted my hair and I handed him foils. It brought me great joy to learn that many of his regular clients were little old biddies who'd been with him for over 30 years and followed him around town when he set up new shops to get their hair set twice a week.

The first time I did something drastic with my hair was when I was 21. I'd gone through my first real relationship quickly (less than 4 months) and I was hurt and angry. I wanted a change in my life that I could control. Normally this would come in the form of a bang cut but I decided to dye my hair purple instead. I went to the beauty school in town because I was poor, and I figured those girls had a lot of practice in dying their own hair fun colors. I ended up doing purple chunks under my hairline and I loved the final result. I was a hippy that summer. Traveling in a van, living out of my suitcase, wearing friendship bracelets, and rocking my purple hair.

At the end of that summer, the purple faded, and I was left with this weird blue-gray color. I started box-dying my entire head at home over the next few years, usually accompanied by a girlfriend and under the influence of wine. I loved the deep auburn colors and sometimes I managed to pick the right color but I usually ended up with some dark blackish-brown color or in one memorable moment, bright red like Ariel in the Little Mermaid.

My snow-white grandpa was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer and given 4 – 9 months to live. My favorite person in the whole world was going to leave me and I felt like I was the one dying. I locked myself in my parents' hallway bathroom, the one I shared with my brother growing up, laid in the tub, and dry heaved cried. I was shattering.

The treatments made his hair fall out. We used to joke that our names were Cue Ball (him and his shiny bald head), Odd Ball (my crazy grandma), and Screw Ball (me, the college kid and oldest grandchild). He made it 7 years and I still have cards and emails signed from "Cue Ball, your second-string mama".

I was living with my boyfriend of many years when he told me I had prison hair. I didn't know what that was, but I knew it wasn't a compliment. He told me that it's when you go to prison with dyed hair and you've been there for so long that when you get out, there's massive grow out. I told him that was rude and he told me that I make enough money that I need to see a real hairdresser. He reminded me that I was in a management position and needed to look professional.

I asked my older work bestie where to go and she suggested a cute salon in an expensive neighboring town. The place was super trendy, served wine(!), and the hairdresser was about my age and reminded me of my best childhood friend. I was instantly sold even though the prices were double what I was paying before.

With a professional in charge of my hair, it became a more consistent color of highlighted blondes and browns. Over time, I somehow moved so far into blonde that I barely recognized myself in my wedding photos. In my mind, my hair is mousy brown. I used to joke that I'd have to see my brother to remember what my real hair color was because I hadn't seen it in over a decade.

COVID hit and the world fell to shit. I'd been accepted into grad school for an MBA program. My husband and I were going to quit our jobs early before the big move and spend 4 months traveling the world through South America, Africa, Eastern Europe, the Middle East, and Southeast Asia. The world shut down a month and a half before we were supposed to leave.

I still went to grad school and before I left, I went to my favorite salon to dye my hair purple again on the last day of my real grown-up job. Instead of being 21, I was now 31 and I loved it. For 8 years, I worked in the financial industry as a young woman in a leadership role. I felt that I had to have a professional hairstyle and hair color to be taken seriously. Now I was free.

Looking back, I realize I was grieving both times I dyed my hair purple. At 21 I was grieving for the end of an immature and intense relationship. At 31, I was grieving for the loss of a life goal that I'd worked so hard to attain only to watch it slip through my fingers.

I had purple hair for a year in grad school and nobody knew because the world was on lockdown and all my classes were virtual. It was easy to hide, and I still worried about people seeing me as a professional when I engaged in class. It's been a year and I'm now back to my professional highlighted hair. It's turned very blonde again between all the chemicals and intense California sun rays.

In my mind, I still have brown hair and I'm always shocked when others describe me as a blonde. I want to dye my hair brown again, ideally a deep auburn brown but I have a new set of problems. Dyed hair, especially darker dyed hair, is expensive and time-consuming to maintain especially if you are trying to avoid prison hair. My second problem is more ironic. My natural mousy brown hair is starting to turn bright snow white.

That beautiful white hair I admired on my grandfather is apparently coming in 50 years too early. I'm happy to hit the genic jackpot of white hair, not gray hair, but I'm 32. I do not want white hair right now. So, the blonde has to stay for the foreseeable future until I have more money and time because the snow-white strands blend effortlessly with the highlights. I like to think that if my grandpa was still around, he'd tease me for my white locks. Our names would be Cue Ball, Odd Ball, and now for me, Snow Ball.