Hello, my name is Gillian and I'm a Haircolor Hermaphrodite.

My mother was born a green-eyed blonde, both her siblings had red hair.  By the time my mother was in high school her hair had darkened significantly, and by the time she married my Dad, it was nearly black.  Thick and lustrous, she was featured in hair commercials for Joseph Anthony Salon when I was a little girl, in Syracuse, N.Y.  Her hair was part of her identity, and when she was ill and lost most of her hair, I know it was hard on her.

She always indulged my brother and I at the salon.  My brother Michael got highlights in the early 1980's, long before it was fashionable or reasonable to let a boy experiment with hair color.  He was ahead of his time.  I waited longer to experiment with my color.  As a baby, my hair favored my redheaded aunt and uncle but quickly darkened to a chocolatey brown.   For reasons I cannot explain to you, I never felt at home in my dark hair.  It didn't reflect on the outside who I was on the inside.  I felt rather like a haircolor hermaphrodite.

I began my experimentation with hair color my senior year of high school.  Of course, like most newbies, I began with highlights.  My hairdresser Michael, who I had seen since age 9, called it 'frosting'.  Sounded delicious!  Who wouldn't want frosting?  So, shortly before I met my first real boyfriend, also Michael, my brown tresses were frosted blonde. Those striking highlights brought me new confidence I didn't think possible!  Okay, maybe it was also first love, but damn the hair made me feel good about myself.

Although I was devoted to my stylist, during my college years, it was difficult to make the 5 1/2 hour drive.  I began to experiment with color on my own.  By the time I was a junior at Penn State, I had my "A-ha" moment!  I realized that I was a redhead born in a brunettes body.

I spent the summer before my senior year in Greenwich Village, N.Y.C..  My independence, the pulse of the city, a group of crazy friends, a slightly dangerous apartment, young love and a minor rhinoplasty, contributed to me becoming truly myself. All that, and a good shiny coat of red-on-the-head.  When I went back to Penn State for my senior year, I was more myself than ever before. I met my husband Jeffrey that year; in the 22 years since, he has never known any Gillian other than redheaded Gillian.  I like it that way.

An aside: Michael, the high school boyfriend, found out sometime in the mid-1990's that I had undergone the metamorphosis from brunette to redhead and wasn't at all pleased.  Like his opinion counted?  Maybe I should be concerned he will avenge my former hair color -- after all he did just get out of prison, and his younger brother Ben had sex reassignment and renamed himself after me. Gillian.  No joke. I cannot make this stuff up

It hasn't been all foils and roses.  I had a fabulous stylist the four years I lived in Akron, Ohio.  Ron was a chemist by day for Akzo-Nobel and at night he ran his own old-school beauty salon.  When Jeff finished his Ph.D. we moved to Columbus and I carefully kept the hair color formula on a folded piece of paper to give to my new stylist.  I found a salon in trendy Grandview that seemed perfect.  Glenn was flamingly gay and adorable and I decided at once he was THE ONE.  I trusted Glenn with my hair.  He tossed the formula to the wind and ensured me that he would create a masterpiece for my job interview with COSI the following morning.  The salon was my battlefield where I endured eight hours of sheer hell

Beauty can be painful, but this was BEYOND.   His first attempt left me with a full head of clown red hair.  Glenn said it was gorgeous.  I held back my tears.  FIX IT.  My clothes were drenched, my hair was falling out in clumps, my scalp was bleeding, and during those eight hours my hair color was changed from fire engine red to fluorescent orange to baby pink before the owner shut down the salon and stepped in to save us both.  It took a year of loving care for my hair to return to its former glory.  There are several morals to this story: 1.) just because he is cute and gay doesn't make him a good hair stylist, 2.) when you find a good colorist, appreciate him/her, and then 3.) DON'T EVER MOVE!

So, here I am in Savannah, GA.  I broke rule #3 and moved away from my beloved Amanda; my hair longs for her magic touch. Amanda is 13 hours away in Worthington, Ohio.  Too far to drive for a red fix.  Crazy as this may sound, Amanda would examine my head and listen.  My hair would tell her what it wanted, what it needed.  Amanda could hear my hair speaking to her. Right now, my hair is screaming at me and crying her name.  Last week, Amanda PM'ed me and said she missed my hair.  The feeling is mutual.

A great color job can be better than good sex.  Nothing makes me feel sexier. Or more satisfied.

Recently, my blonde daughters asked for 'more blonde'.  Their hair is naturally darkening.  Oh, I know this is a slippery slope.  As a parent, I encourage my daughters to appreciate their inner beauty and place value on their talent and intelligence.  I also understand the power of  hair color to enhance self-confidence.  How can I color my own hair and not allow them the same privilege? If they feel blonde, it makes sense to me that their reflections match who they feel they are on the inside.  It is only hair color after all. Visions of tattoos better wait until they are living under someone else's roof... 

So, I am a red headed wannabe, and my daughters are convinced they are blondes.  Gilly is sassy, opinionated, fiery and passionate and my red hair suits me.  Gillian is not a brunette.  I know some people would say I shouldn't color my hair, that I should accept who I am, as G-d intended.  In my case, I AM BEING MYSELF.

Perhaps G-d was snoozing when my hair color was assigned, for if I know anything, I know I am a red head.