My roots are back.
As happens every month and a half, I am surprised to suddenly have light brown hair sprouting near my scalp.
And I am disappointed.
And I feel a little less pretty, a little less self-assured, and a little less me.
But the fact of the matter is, those roots are the real me, the natural me, the color of my hair as God (or whomever) intended it to be. And blonde, rootless me, the person who swoops in every six weeks after a lengthy visit to Jason's chair, is a person I've created. A figment. An idea. An image, carefully crafted in the name of this experiment.
I am puzzled, then, by a very philosophical question: is the real me the natural me? Or the person I decide I want to be.
Does image drive identity? Or does identity beget image?
To me, those questions are at the root of this experiment.