Verdantly Coiffed Junior Tells Tale of Technicolor Tresses

By Joe Musumeci

Hi. I’m the green-haired kid. Perhaps you remember me from such hair colors as “purple” or “Atlantic blue.”

Life on Georgetown’s heralded Hilltop is much different when lived through rose-tinted hair (or any other artificially induced color, for that matter.) People turn and stare. Passing conversations are irrevocably altered, as comments are made or flabbergasted pointing ensues. Occasional comments are tossed out.

All in all, I have found the life of the colored-haired kid to be most pleasurable. The majority of comments from both bystanders and onlookers have ranged from accepting to admiring, with the naysayers only tossing their bitter words and sentiments in my direction once in a great while. On the whole, the experience is most delightful, and I would highly recommend it to any adventuresome lads or lasses who are strong of heart and hair.

What could drive an otherwise-seemingly normal young person to take such a leap of style? Well, I don’t quite know what ye olde psychology books would tell you on that one, but here’s how I ended up here:

Ever since middle school, and most likely after I had re-read Roald Dahl’s wonderful classic Charlie and the Chocolate Factory for the umpteenth time (NOT to be confused with the weird and quirky film interpretation, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory), I have had the urge to dye my hair blue. I vaguely attribute this compulsion to the character Violet Beauregard, who turns into a human blueberry after eating Wonka’s meal-in-a-stick-of-gum before it was safe to consume. I not only felt close to this fictitious figure as a character in one of my favorite books of all time but also as a role performed by my older sister in a children’s theater production. Toss in the fact that blue was my favorite color as a child, and – by their powers combined! – these factors created an inspiration and drive which lived only as a dream until my dying endeavors began last semester.

At the time of my initial escapade last August, my hair was nearly shoulder-length, with the underportions shaved in order to compensate for hereditarily thick hair and the summer’s brutal heat. I enlisted the assistance of a veteran hair dyer and set my exploits into motion. I applied the frighteningly caustic combination of peroxide and bleach to my hair, and soon my dark brown mane was both the color and consistency of straw. After rinsing the scary goo out of my newly damaged hair, I applied the much nicer smelling hair dye, a color purporting to be “purple” (a tribute to my most lovely, purple-aficianado significant other who had just left for Africa for the semester) which quickly proved itself to be pink.

Once the fateful first exploit was complete, the future roads were clearly paved. After the pink dye faded out, and I had experienced the middle-aged woman’s nightmare as a bleach-blond with roots, I moved on to my original vision, a full head of luscious blue hair. The results were better that I had ever imagined, and my dream had officially been realized.

A month later, my lengthy locks met an untimely demise, as the decorum of impending family holiday functions compelled me to undergo a drastic shearing, returning the oppressive regime of natural brown hair to power upon the domain of my cranium. But after a five-month appearance among the legions of the normal-looking, lengthened by the necessity of a normal-looking, legal-aged driver’s license photo shoot in late February, I made my triumphant (and perhaps final???) return to the realm of the ridiculous through an “apple green” rendition of my noggin and goatee, partially inspired by the proximity of St. Patrick’s Day festivities.

My life as an Italian leprechaun of sorts had been most splendid, and I would not trade these experiences for the greatest riches in the world, even a most-coveted and rare Beta-compatible copy of Kazaam.

Joe Musumeci is a junior in the College and managing editor of The Hoya.

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