Our editor experiences the Holy Hair Trinity
There was something incredibly beautiful and angelic to being blonde … When the sun hit my hair at certain angles, there was glimmer out the corner of my eyes. Sometimes this would last for twenty minutes if I set my beach towel or patio chair just right. I walked around in this kind of sparkle trance on summer days, looking upward to find the sun. I was in a perpetual state of bliss. How could I be otherwise? And I loved being blonde when naked. I like that tousled bed head look. The languid sexiness. I never brushed my hair, I liked it tangled and wild and untamed. I felt very good blonde.
When I went black, it was an act of defiance. I had been dating a man who called me Miss Bardot because of my blonde hair. My Instagram handle was (and it still is) goldleafed, coming from a nickname that another past lover had tokened to me. Who wouldn’t love being called sun kissed and goldleafed? I was also a hair model, and relied upon my blonde hair for not just a slight boost of income, but also as an escape from the otherwise nitty grittiness of Manhattan. My hair unlocked doors to all the top salons and shears that NYC had to offer, with high degrees of pampering. My hair always looked good. And de spite all this blonde doting, I fantasized about going black, about beingpolished and shiny and untouchable in that femme fatale way. You know what I’m talking about. And I knew I would wear it well. First off, all my clothes are black. I committed to that a while ago. My fondness for darkness was never fully appreciated when I had such a blonde head atop my monochrome attire. Stomping around in Ann Demeulemeester combat boots, my ideal vision of myself was never fully realized as long as I housed highlighted and coiffed blonde strands.
Shortly after moving to Berlin, I bought a box of black hair dye and I did it myself. My flatmate was aghast. Everyone was. Family members thought I had snapped. They checked on me with regularity, thinking my existential crisis was coming to an obvious head. But I loved it. I walked around with such power. I chopped it off, too. I felt dominance when I slicked my hair back with gobs of gel. Men stopped leering at me. Only those who felt they could counter my bitchy death stare dared approach me. And those happen to be the types I like. I really loved this vampy Janna. And I still do. She’s great. But I just hit the two year mark.My hair has grown back over a meter. It’s beautiful! But it is now getting lost in all my black clothing. And I myself am feeling pretty drab after this full year of lockdown, of salons being closed, of not tending to my hair. I can’t be fully stimulated by anything else, so why not stimulate myself? While museums are still closed, salons just reopened. And th at’s when I got the idea locked in my head and I just couldn’t shake it….
A missing factor of my life yet experienced has been the completion of the Holy Hair Trinity. Blonde … black … and then, there is red … I want to go red. I KNOW it will look good. Redheads are feisty. They’re witchy and wild and ferocious. Multi-dimensional. A rarity. I have written sonnets dedicated to the hair of my naturally red-headed girlfriends. A thing of timeless beauty. A fleeting characteristic! Soon there will be no more red heads left in the world. They are gems.
But going red is definitely not something I can do alone. I would never dare. So here is where we have Salon Bordel come into the equation. Note to non-German speakers, Bordel translates to Brothel. My kind of place. And they are going to be my guides.