Smack Me

I colored my hair today.

I didn't even tell my girlfriends I was going to which is like, A Cardinal Rule of being female. 
That's why we go to the powder room together, we have to share everything. 
Our joys, our sorrows, our boob jobs, our dye jobs.

But I just craved a little change.

It was quite a process lightening my hair because it was nearly black and they had to basically prep my hair before they attempted to put on the color. 
It took two colorists and three hours to get the job done.

I loved it.
It looked fantastic.

And then later I felt dissatisfied.

The girlfriend I met after I colored my hair agreed it looked nice but casually asked, But haven't you had it that color before?

And when I got home it took Grandma a good ten minutes of looking directly at me while talking before she noticed anything was different.

This wasn't exactly the reaction I anticipated from making such a daring change.

The color had turned out slightly darker than I'd wanted.
And I suddenly felt let down.

I realized what I craved, what I had an overwhelming desire for was male validation.
And when I came to that conclusion I wished someone would smack me in the face.

What the hell was wrong with me??

I loved my new hair.
I thought it looked pretty.
I felt the change, even if it wasn't apparent to anyone else.

So why did I need someone else's approval to know I looked ravishing?

I hung my feminist head in shame.

My inner six year old was standing there, waiting eagerly, asking expectantly, Do you like it?  Am I so pretty?  Do you delight in me? 

But with no one to watch me twirl my Sparkle Friday came grinding to a hault.

I am woman. 
Hear me roar.
Me-ow.

Good. Grief.

I took myself on a walk and set myself straight.

I do look ravishing.
Whether or not anyone notices?
I am still worth someone's double take.

It's just too bad they missed it.