Perhaps it is because working in the fashion industry has left me chemically dependant on the thrill of dramatic change, or maybe it has more to do with that eternal quest to stand out, but every now and then, I get an overwhelming urge to dye my hair a colour that does not occur in nature.
The first time it hit I was fifteen, and desperate to rebel against suburbia in a way that didn't involve my father weeping over a shiny metal object jammed through a fleshy part of my face. A great deal of bleach and some Fudge packing later I was a shade of shocking, boysenberry purple, and so I remained for well over a year, occasionally switching up with streaks of strawberry and tourmaline. This exercise in punk rock juvenilia ended tragically when an attempt to go beyond the pale resulted in me weeping as I watched the translucent strings of overcooked vermicelli that had once been my hair swirl slowly down the bathroom sink.
After that, I resolved never to dye my hair again, but resolve, like all things, must one day crumble, and the subsequent years saw me rotating between chocolate, vanilla and my natural caramel like the daily cake specials of an insipid cafe.
Then, two years ago, something started happening, first on the cover of Dazed and Confused, in runway shows and then, finally in Vogue, my past predilections for shags in outlandish shades came back into fashion. The standard look was a dip-dye effect, an ombre actualised on follicles in addition to frocks, with striated strands in faded rainbows acting as a variation on the theme. In a 'now's my chance' moment I jumped on the trend, and rang my favourite colourist, who was already performing what she'd termed 'the Surry Hills dip' (that's Sydney's not Melbourne's) on the regular.
Mostly because I enjoyed the naughty implications of the style's description (and also because the fade-effect would look the least chlorinated), we decided on pink tips. And so, into my - at that stage slightly artificially lightened - 'do, we inserted a splash or two of pale flamingo, just before fashion week. It went well for five days, and then, almost immediately afterwards, it went down the drain. That's the problem with unnatural colours - particularly the subtle sort - they're ultra ephemeral.
After watching my shade fade away, I went on a year long no-fuss kick, brought on by a one-two punch of time and monetary poverty that saw me entirely embrace my natural doesn't-know-if-it's-Jewish-or-Irish halo of curls and fine fluff, and abandon any "I dye" delusions.
But unlike my colour, the trend didn't fade, and staring down the barrel of five fashion weeks in a row, I found myself itching for some decorative plumage again.
Fortunately, beauty had caught up with fashion, and by then, Sebastian Professional had created a range of
Colour Ignite shampoos and conditioners specifically targeted at the ridiculously-hued. What particularly impressed me about the new colour care range was they had two varieties, a kind targeted at multishade dye-jobs, and one for more monochromatic styles.
Hoping to test both the new range's staying power, and how people would react to yet another ride on the rainbow wagon on my ends, I booked myself in to Sebastian Professional ambassador (and Australian Hairdresser of the Year, what can I say, I'm a fussy bitch),
Joey Scandizzo's shiny new South Yarra salon.
My fussiness continued from there. Having committed to a salon experience, I began to fret over losing my low maintenance lifestyle, and insisted on a dip-dye that would not damage my hair, would look good when worn in curls, but would still be noticeable enough not to defeat the exercise. My colourist, miraculously, managed to oblige with barely even a roll of the eyes, and afterwards Joey removed several inches of split ends from my poor, neglected mane.
The initial results were fantastic, subtle enough, but still certainly present, a shy blush creeping up through my mousey blond locks. My roommate was rapturous, while a quick, narcissistic little Photobooth-to-Facebook post up yielded the highest possible compliment one can bestow in my friendship circle: "You look like a high class Russian call girl" (if it had been a "barely legal high class Russian call girl" it would have been perfect). So far, so promising, though it seemed a hint of crazy colour was now so acceptable, it was expensive.
A shower using the monocoloured Ignite shampoo resulted in rivulets of barely-pink water running down my shoulders, a far cry from the Barbie doll murder scene that normally follows the first post dye wash.
Hardly brushed, I boarded a plane for New Zealand, where my dye was spotted mainly after a bit of contemplation. "Oh," noted one prominent Australian fashionista who was also on the trans-Tasman press trip "you've got pink in your hair… I like it." So far so promising, and the colour was holding up well.
The next stop was New York, where my blush, though still bright, had begun to fade some. "You're a bit of a minor rebel?" a street style blogger observed one evening. "I see a little bit of colour in your hair…" My face pinked to match. "I think you are some kind of classy hipster."
In London, a town where Katie Shillingford's De Ville-ish mane is permanently toasted, my little fairy floss flecks seemed wimpy if anything. The model of the moment sported a far more noticeable shade of pink, that was widely agreed to be excellent, and so bright was the fashion, her hair barely drew focus. Although the colour was still holding in alright, its presence was never commented on.
By Milan, the tips had faded to a peachy sort of shade, and my little travel bottles of colour preserving product were all but exhausted. Unsure of the best course of action, I began slicking my increasingly greasy hair into tight little buns, where the tips remained hidden.
In Paris I caved and switched to a shampoo that held no promise of colour nurturing, and almost immediately afterwards, my hair held no colour. The last of the pink streaked out, leaving behind a honey trail that could almost have been caused by nature herself.
Almost immediately, I missed it. Though it's pretty enough, my near natural mop feels unexceptional. It's crop, however, is a different story. It has been a month since I returned from my seven week, cross continental odyssey, and I am still receiving compliments on my hair cut, which makes it, without question, the longest lasting style I've ever had. AHFJ don't hand out 'of the Year' gongs for nothing.
I suspect after this last round, where I discovered a once rebellious colour is now commented on, but utterly unshocking, my dipping days may be over. But I'm glad that I did it, and made it last.
How much is it: Prices vary from salon to salon, but you're getting a bargain if it costs under $100.
Where do you get it: A dip-dye effect shouldn't be beyond the means of your local hairdresser, though they may not have the palette for it. To ensure you can score your exact colour, bring it in yourself http://www.manicpanic.com/
How often do you need it: Sebastian Professional Colour Ignite extended the last of the colour by several washes, but you'll still need a top up every four weeks or so, depending on how vibrant you'd like to keep it.
Who should get it: Someone who would like to feel risque without actually taking a big risk.
Who shouldn't get it: Serious suits.
Would I do it again: It's never too late to pang for adolescence.
Top image: Katie Shillingford via Stockholm Street Style, Abbey Lee via Vogue Australia, Tallulah Morton via Oyster