It all started with DIY hair bleach and three bottles of Gentian Violet. (Note to all potential users: That shit does not play around. If you’re planning on using it, find an industrial strength pair of plastic gloves and an open field. I spent three hours scrubbing the bathroom. Trust me on this one.)

Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m not particularly hardcore. I eat melted marshmallows on Marie biscuits for breakfast and religiously watch Spongebob. I still get teary eyed when I remember my childhood home that was demolished a few years ago. What possessed me to dye my hair purple, I cannot say.

On the first day of being a purplehead, I faced my first wardrobe crisis since I was 13. Any hint of black made me look like an angry little punk kid. Then, it spread to browns, dark blues, band tee shirts. Even a ripped pair of jeans wouldn’t work. Almost all of my clothes made me look like a member of a counterculture I had never wanted to be a part of.

My hair was purple and I had a bar through my tongue. How much worse could it possibly get? A lot worse.I needed color to counter the punk kid vibe that my hair had so delightfully bestowed upon me. I wore neon head to toe, but I ended up looking like a scene kid, which is infinitely worse than looking like a punk kid.

There I was, still in pajamas with 10 minutes to go before class.

I somehow ended up in ripped and paint splattered jeans, a paint splattered shirt, and a tie dye scarf, looking like a rainbow had defecated on me. But at least I didn’t look like a scene kid.

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I didn’t expect the attention I got. Okay, that’s a lie. Attention whore that I am, I looked forward to the attention.

What I wasn’t expecting was the ingrained belief that I could not have purple hair, that I had to be wearing a wig. Many a hand pulled and tugged to see if my "wig" would fall off. People I had never spoken to, or had even known existed, felt it was their right to sneak up behind me and try rip off my "wig." I’m sure I lost an unhealthy amount of hair and more than a few follicles were stunned. Thanks, assholes.

On the second day, feeling a bit big-headed due to all the attention, I decided that I was in fact, pretty damn hardcore. I even put my tongue ring back in. (I took it out halfway through the day because it was irritating me, but the point is, I had a tongue ring for about three hours.)

I abandoned my paint splattered attire of the previous day, and decided to wear a black shirt, a long brown skirt, and boots. Even I wouldn’t usually be caught dead in that. But hey, my hair was purple and I had a bar through my tongue. How much worse could it possibly get?

A lot worse.

I felt like a cross between Hagrid from Harry Potter (without the height) and Gwen Stefani circa 1999 (without the sex appeal).

As I innocently walked through the aisles grocery shopping, small children fled and soccer moms blocked their teenage children’s eyes.

An old woman and I reached for the last packet of lettuce at the same time. One look at me and she ran as fast as any 80-year-old with cataracts possibly could. If there was an Octogenarian Olympics, she would be the front runner. I’m a decent person, I would have let the old bitch have the lettuce.

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Normally, the cashiers at my local supermarket are assholes at the best of times. Yes, it is my fault that you dropped out of high school and have been working here for the past seven years. Yes, I know you live in a one bedroom house and have four children, that’s my fault too. Now can you please just check out my groceries?

But this time was different. My unfriendly cashier looked at me and laughed. Just pure laughter. It took about ten minutes for her to calm down enough to check out my groceries. I would’ve called the manager, but he probably would have laughed too.

Today is day three. I’ve washed my hair five times and the color just keeps getting brighter and brighter. I’m seriously considering shaving my head.

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