"What color is my hair?" Jill asked me. "Is my hair red?"

I looked at her hair in alarm. She had washed it before rushing off to keep her dentist appointment. And yes, her hair looked red. I was hoping that when it dried it would be blonde again. Because we had spent the entire day yesterday trying to get the color blonde.

Jill had applied some coloring from L'Oreal called Apricot. She had to. Because after staying in Berkeley, her hair was bleached nearly white. It looked sort of albino. The Sun-in process she had been using to highlight her hair in New York had oxidized in the California sun. We decided that she needed to add color to her hair. But we hadn't liked any of the beauty salons we visited.

So we went to McKay's Drug Store where Jill spent an endless amount of time deciding what shade to buy. She asked my advice, and we finally decided on L'Oreal's Apricot. After you shampoo it in, it will last for 24 washings.

So Jill bought the color and shampooed it in. And when her hair dried, it wasn't white anymore. But it wasn't blonde, either. It was fire-engine red.

Jill thought she looked absolutely horrible. She said that there's nothing worse than hair that looks obviously dyed. She said she also looked cheap. She was really upset.

Jill was so upset that she was also upset with me. She was upset with me because I wasn't upset enough about her hair. She was upset that I didn't think that she looked absolutely horrible and cheap. This made me feel bad. It really made me wish that I did think she looked absolutely horrible and cheap. But I didn't.

I chastised myself, wondering what could possibly make me so unfeeling. I mean, I'm her mother, after all. Shouldn't I think my daughter looks horrible and cheap if that's what she wants me to think? But I didn't. Maybe because when I think of all the truly horrible hair I've seen - like mohawks and spiked heads and shaved heads, the indigo hair and green hair - I guess I just didn't think that Jill's hair looked that bad. In fact, I rather liked it. It was a little bit eccentric. Like Jill.

When we visited Woodmere, everyone in my family agreed that Jill's hair looked horrible. This made Jill happy that she was right. And upset all over again by how horrible they all thought she looked. She spent the entire car ride moaning about her hair. It was even worse because she would be seeing some preppy friends she hadn't seen in a long time, and she didn't want to be seen in fire-engine red hair. She didn't want them to see how horrible she looked. And how cheap.

I tried to cheer her up. "Your friends don't like you because of the color of your hair," I said. "And nobody needs friends like that, if they do. Your friends like you for who you are. And you're adorable," I said. I didn't add that she was also a little eccentric.

But Jill wasn't cheered up a bit. She probably didn't think her friends would find her quite so adorable in her horrible and cheap fire-engine red hair. She was ashamed even to be seen walking down the street.

We decided to return to McKay's to find another hair color to put over the fire-engine red. We couldn't find any.

"What do you think of my hair?" Jill asked the cashier who had sold us the L'Oreal. "Isn't it horrible?"

"Yes," the cashier agreed. "It looks like you have a red wig on!"

When we got home, we decided that maybe if Jill kept washing her hair, some of the color would wash out. After all, it was supposed to last for only 24 washings. We decided she should wash her hair 4, maybe 5 or 6 times before she was supposed to meet her first preppy friend. After that, the red might be a little less metallic.

Jill spent the rest of the afternoon washing her hair. She washed it at least 5 times. Each time she did, the red looked just as bad. Jill didn't know what to do.

"I'll dye my hair black," she said. "It might not look very good but at least it will be Goth." So she sprayed some temporary black hair color over the metallic red. I thought she looked like her hair was coated with black shoe polish. I was glad that she agreed and washed it out.

Soon Jill was on her way out the door to find a beauty salon. Any beauty salon.

"Do you think you could try to spray on some Sun-in?" I asked, wondering if maybe that would lighten the color. Jill thought she might as well try. "Just don't hold me responsible," I pleaded. I thought of all the things that could go wrong. All the different shades that Jill could hate. After so much activity, her hair could even fall out.

But it actually worked. The bright red color was bleached out. A lovely soft blonde hue tinted her hair instead. Jill loved how she looked. I loved how she looked. Even her first preppy friend loved how she looked.

"So I hope we've had our crisis for a while," I said to Jill afterward.

"At least it wasn't as bad as my thyroid crisis," Jill reminded me. She was happy again now that her hair was a lovely soft color. I remembered how upset she'd been several years ago when she thought she had a thyroid problem and was gaining weight every five minutes.

"You're right," I agreed happily. " It wasn't."

August, 1997
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"Is my hair green?" Jill asked. She had applied a Clairol dark blonde color to her hair the previous night. But after her hair dried she thought that she detected a greenish cast. "I think this may be a sequel to 'Is my hair red,'" she observed wryly.

But Jill was going to Woodmere for the day. So the sequel took place without me. When Jill returned, her hair was light brown. She had spent the day with my father. When I spoke to him later, he still hadn't recovered from the experience.

Jill didn't love her newest hair shade. She thought it looked drab. I thought so too. I suggested she apply Sun-in. It had worked before. Maybe it would work again. It did.

"I got so many compliments on my hair," Jill reported next day. She had gone dancing at her club that night. "Everyone said they were glad the old Jill was back again. Instead of the blonde bimbo from California."

January, 1998
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