Pretty in pink: reflections on pseudo-rebellion

Two days prior to my 20th birthday, I went to Taft Cosmetics on Whitney Avenue and stood in awe of the hair care aisle, gaping at the rows upon rows of bright hair color dyes. With brand names like Manic Panic and Punky Color, who could resist? Fire Engine Red, Purple Haze, Lime Green—the possibilities were endless. I closed my eyes, pointed, and $7.99 later I was in front of my bathroom sink with a jar of Flamingo Pink, lathering my locks. After 20 minutes, with only slightly stained hands and ears, I was the proud owner of brand new pink hair. I waited eagerly for my friends to "ooh" and my acquaintances to "ahh," for people in my classes who previously never talked to me stop me on the street, and random people in the dining hall to yelp "cool hair!" It was the best conversation starter I ever had.

Of course, I didn't expect anything really drastic to result, but maybe I was kind of hoping that it would. I didn't get any offers to join a punk band or accessories with metal spikes, but I did get a couple of strange looks in my Spanish class. So what prompted me to convert my tresses from dishwater blonde to a shocking shade of magenta? Well, as I was about to turn 20, I wanted to do something wild and crazy to celebrate my last moments of teenager-dom, something I would remember forever as I crossed the threshold into a new decade. I considered tattoos, piercings, skydiving—but all seemed too permanent, too weird, or just too expensive. Semi-permanent dye was the perfect solution.

I was troubled by the prospect of leaving my teenage status behind, terrified of the new expectations of responsibility and maturity. But I think, secretly, I longed to dye my hair long before, and used my 20th birthday as an excuse. Why?

I've never been particularly rebellious. Sure, I participated in my high school senior prank when a bunch of us strung 100 bras together in front of the school with the sign: "We're Busting Out of Here!" And a couple of weeks ago I danced on top of the Women's Table in the middle of the night. I make the occasional monkey noises in the dining halls. But that's a pretty sorry résumé for a wannabe rebel. What am I going to tell my children years from now when they ask me for crazy stories from when I was young?

There's something inherently cool in shattering conventions. No matter what you do, if you act with a blatant disregard for the rest of society, if you make it clear you don't care what others think, it's absolutely exhilarating. It means that—at least for the moment—you have complete self-confidence. But how significant is it to say, "I don't care"? When I dyed my hair pink, I didn't do it because I thought it would change society; I did it to show I had the guts to dye my hair pink. I mean, when someone said my hair looked dumb (and only one person did), I wasn't upset because I wasn't personally invested in it.

The real rebels are people who break convention for something they truly believe in. This includes people such as Rosa Parks, who challenged convention in the name of equality. Or people like T. S. Eliot or Monet or Stravinsky, who, despite misunderstandings of their work, strove for new ways of artistic expression. Or the guy who wears a rainbow triangle t-shirt, or the girl who plays with trucks instead of dolls, or Students Against Sweatshops, sleeping on Beinecke in what still feels like sub-zero temperatures to my California skin. Suddenly my hot pink hair pales in comparison.

Already the dye is fading. Each shower produces pink rivulets of water, and each blow-dry reveals more and more dishwater blonde peeking through. So what's next? Writing a symphony for kazoos? Dancing naked on Cross Campus in protest of sweatshop labor? Or Punky Color No. 37, Fluorescent Tangerine?

Claire O'Connor is a sophomore in Timothy Dwight.

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