The Hidden Psychology Behind Why Women Dye Their Hair

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In the 21st century of Manic Panic,

L’Oreal do-it-yourself kits, as well as dimly lit hair salons (never fluorescent) swarming with fabulously effeminate young men, their hair artfully slicked back in the regal arching of the infamous pompadour, as their immaculately manicured fingers dart about the tips of your hair akin to trapped moths seeking for light, while the mellow soundtrack of their gentle critique of your greasy roots unravel in the hair spray dense air along with the belting vocals of Beyoncé in the background,

It is no wonder that a sweeping glance in any ol’ shopping mall will reveal a pandemic of females from the age of 10 to possibly 80 whom have decidedly camouflaged their cultural roots in hues that range from Gossip Girl glossy to Lady Gaga outrageous.

Ever seen an olive skinned Asian with blonde hair? Yeah.

Anyway, back to the mind blowing knowledge that I am about to impart. Hasn’t anyone of you, any average guy for example, ever wondered why your girlfriend annually (or maybe in a shorter time span) emerges in your embrace doused in the harsh scent of bleaching chemicals? Have you ever paused to pontificate why she willingly forks over considerable sums of money in the honour of the aforementioned event?

I, myself am guilty of tentatively exploring the frontier phases of Marshmallow brown, Mahogany, Mahogany with honeysuckle highlights, Auburn, Natural Black, Spicy Intense Red and lastly Spicy Intense Red with Pastel Pink dip dyed tips.

The mantra of which I just regurgitate honestly has nothing to do with hitherto what I have written and yet I recite the name sakes of such (miraculously!) hair transforming agents with the same unadulterated pride as a prestigious Forensic Psychologist listing his/her credentials on a stand in the midst of a nasty law brawl.

Hence the hidden psychology behind the reason why women dye their hair. Having starkly contrasting and sometimes severely clashing virulent shades of every nameable color in the palette saturate the previously virgin strands of hair imbues us with a sense of pride. Such a verb perhaps being one of the biggest understatements of the century.

Furthermore, such a tedious process can very well be placed in juxtaposition to a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, a mouldy caterpillar that munches on the dull greens of a lowly bush, no longer. But a product of sheer elegance, seemingly created to only execute flawlessly choreographed jazz routines beneath the summer perfumed warmth, pausing only to daintily sip the refreshing cocktail of nectar only creatures of beauty are entitled to.

Simply put, dying our hair greatly enhances the magnetic attraction of our physical selves. Or rather, if I were to speak in a realistic manner, it makes us think we are more beautiful than we actually are. But fret not! Because nevertheless, it still injects within us insecure, dowdy mortals with the heady and intoxicating concept of self-confidence. Which is probably just as sufficient. We hope. (It is what that keeps us going)

Even now, I am still able to reminisce the first time I secretly purchased, with the saved up remnants of my monthly allowance, a DIY kit of foam hair dye which was the rage of my youth at a pharmacy nearby my dwellings.

And there I stood in my completely foam splattered shower cubicle with my mane teased high up with gobbles of orange foam, a towel stained orange wrapped around my torso, reeking of that lingering odour of God-knows-what-they-put-in-that-foam, one of which permeates your nostrils in a grievous olfactory assault, and yet I absolutely loved it.

I loved every minute of it, I loved the anticipation that wrecked my preadolescent soul as I eagerly awaited for the promised results I knew, for a fact, would somehow make boys notice me. And most of all, I loved the feeling of being inducted into a secret league of trendy women. Sort of like a slightly more ditzy and definitely a lot less harmless female version of the Ku Klux Klan.

All in all, this entire hair dying modus operandi is in my firm belief, equivalent to an hour long session of therapy. As waxed lyrical about above, namely, the self-confidence, the pride and the sudden awareness of being included. Except that with the fresh new look you are thus bequeathed, you pretty much get your money worth. TC Mark

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