There was a time in my life where I decided "Hey! I think I want blonde hair!"
When I told my stylist, she looked at me funny and said it would be a good idea to add blondISH highlights and gradually lighten it. I wasn't having that, I was like "highlights? Hell naw. BLEACH IT BLONDE. NOW!"
She let it be known that she was "against it" and I let it be known that I didn't care because I wanted to be blonde.
A few hours of processing later, I was, um, a "blonde." Only, not really, because I was "an orangish."
I immediately drove to my sister's house to show her and she was all "THAT LOOKS HORRIBLE." Her main "issue" with it was that it wasn't at all blonde, but kinda orange, much like the color of my skin, which meant that my skin and hair all kind of blended together making me look like a giant stick o' bronzer.
My sister has an incredibly awesome sense of style and I trust and value her opinion when it comes to matters of hair/fashion. But, I didn't want to believe her about this because I wanted to be a freakin' blonde and was in what The People like to call "major denial."
Later that day, when I was outside watering the grass, my neighbor -who happened to be the ceraaziest, most hilarious person I've ever had the pleasure of living next door to- drove by and looked at me in a way that led me to believe she did NOT like "The Blonde."
She walked over and in her crazy way of talking said "What the fuck did you do to your hair? Your hair matches your skin and you look all one color and it's creeping me out, woman."
I was still in denial, even though two people had just given me not so positive feedback about The Blonde. Because in my heart, I wanted to believe that I looked "hot" and that "Blonde was my color."
Why? I do not know. But, looking at a bunch of old pictures that I found last night, I realise just HOW RIGHT they were and how BAD IT LOOKED (and these pictures were AFTER I agreed to let myi stylist "weave in a little brown". So, it was worse.) and how desperately I wanted to believe that I could pull of blonde hair.
"Go Carrot. It's your birthday. We're gonna party like it's your birthday".
"Not only do I look good blonde, but I knows how to dance. RESPECT The Fingah Snap, bitches!".
Bronzed Bootay. Ahhhhhh yeaah.
I know, you want to invite me to your party now. I mean, seriously, finger snapping AND booty smacking. I hate to brag, but I pretty much OWN the dance floor, people. Even if "the dance floor" is "a friend's back patio" and I was the only one dancing, which means it wasn't really a dance floor at all, but more like a concrete slab that I used to demonstrate my drunken bronzed antics.
(Sadly, the friend whose house that party was at no longer wants me at their parties. Or doesn't even want to talk to me and I'm pretty sure it's because of something that I wrote on this stupid blog. And as fun as it is to look at those pictures and remember the "Days Of Orange" it makes me want to cry because damn, I miss her. And him. And their kids.
But you know what I do not miss? Looking like a stick of bronzer.
(P.S. YES. Once upon a time I was thin and I possessed normal sized tittay's that did not hit the floor when I removed my bra.)
I love your hair the color it is now, but I have to say, I don't hate the "blonde". Maybe your stylist did a really good job "weaving in the brown", or maybe it's hard to tell in a photo... but I don't think it looks bad at all.
But, I'll take your word about the orange-ness, because I once decided I wanted red hair. My mom said no way, since I have dark brown hair and it would have looked rediculous. So, I did what any girl would do, went to the grocery store with my dad and bought myself a home dye kit. My hair turned purple. Apparently, when you attempt to dye dark brown hair a dark red color, you get a nice shade of violet.