Breaking Up With Blonde: Going Natural With 'Old Money Blonde' in 2024
Is It Time to Go Back to My Natural Hair Colour? A Journey of Hair, Identity, and Self-Acceptance
After decades spent in the salon trying to brighten up my sandy tresses, I might have reached my limit. I’m starting to wonder: is it time to return to my natural hair colour? Known affectionately (or not) as “dirty blonde,” or “dishwater blonde,” this hair shade is now being rebranded as “old money blonde” in 2024. But the thought of changing my hair feels almost like changing my identity—am I really ready for that?
It all started with the Spice Girls
It was 1996 and my friends and I started a Spice Girls tribute band and performed at our local old people’s home. I was Ginger spice but my hair was a sort of sandy taupe colour. I begged my mum to let me dye my hair (I was ten) and much to my surprise, she let me. It was bottle of mousse with a red tint and it gave the lighter strands of my mousy tresses nothing more than a slight hint of orange, but it was enough to get me started.
Fast forward a few years and I was dying my hair chilli-pepper red, blood red, Malbec, rich dark brown. I was approached by a Tony & Guy scout and got my hair dyed in a salon for the first time (and for free!). But it still took me until I was about 15 to be tempted by the allure of blonde tresses.
The home highlighting kits I tried didn’t really work, and I was frustrated. I pored over trashy magazines and Cosmopolitan and probably also the porn magazines I found hidden in my brothers room, and fell in love with the idea of having a glowing, flowing super-blonde mane.
Hitting the High Notes in Hong Kong
Many years later, as we packed up our things at the end of university, I finally got what I wanted - I went blonde.
My two best friends (both natural blondes) were outraged. But even their judgement, which I wrote off as jealousy, couldn’t stop me.
I moved to Hong Kong and began gigging as a classical singer. My golden hair was prized as exotic and added a somehow coherent visual to my operatic vocals.
Pale skin, blue eyes, and hair that was getting more blonde every year. My natural tresses were a distant memory.
And now I sit here at my laptop, 39 years old and with about 8 months of regrowth. My hairdresser John is an absolute genius and it grows out so seamlessly that I only really need to go twice a year, much to the relief of my bank account. I’m overdue a visit, but this time, something feels different.
'Salon fresh' is Feeling Tired
I’m torn between my darker roots and the blonde ends. I don’t want to go back and get my usual dazzling shade of shimmering blonde, fresh and clean and icy for winter. But I don’t like my roots so much either. They look dark and dull, and seem to get greasier faster (or maybe that’s because my boyfriend keeps running his fingers through my hair and stroking my head, he’s Brazilian so he can’t help it).
Either way, I’m stuck between greasy dark roots and bleached ends that are dry and wiry. I have to tame them with straighteners or curlers or whatever because it’s a frizzy mess the moment I switch off the hairdryer.
Maybe it’s time to let my natural colour grow out completely. It might feel healthier and thicker, and maybe I won’t hate my natural colour so much when it’s not sitting inches away from an unachievable salon-shade of creamy whiteness.
The Blonde One Who Sings: My Identity Crisis
This isn’t the first time I have stripped away something that felt central to my identity. I gave up the title of ‘professional singer’ about six years ago, a career that had defined most of my adult life. Without it, I had to ask myself who am I? Because if I wasn’t a singer then who the the hell was I.
Have you ever felt that way? Like a certain aspect of your life defines you, and without it, you’re lost?
I’m a singer. I’m a writer. Who I am is not defined by what I do.
Prom Queen vs Dumb Blonde
At gigs, I was often treated like I was an absolute moron. Not because I was blonde, but because in Hong Kong, kids who struggle at school are pushed in the direction of music, drama and the arts, so the assumption was that someone who had made a career out of those things must be pretty dumb, all considered. Once, on a set for a TV commercial, they were surprised I could read phrases like ‘hyaluronic acid’. I replied that I have a degree in English, but whatever.
I’m intelligent. I’m educated. I’m a watcher of University Challenge and I even know some of the answers.
At another gig, one of the dancers was told that the client wanted her to bleach her natural brown hair for a one-off performance. She was understandable outraged and refused to do it. We settled on a wig which flew off halfway through our performance of Christina Aguilera’s Candyman. Anyway, I digress.
A New Chapter: Returning to My Roots
As I prepare to enter a new decade, I’m letting go of old identities that no longer serve me. I have a wonderful partner who couldn’t care less about the colour of my hair (I know because I asked him 35 times a day to make sure). Maybe it’s time to embrace my roots.
When I look at my natural roots now, I see hints of chestnut, sandy streaks, and sparkling silver starting to emerge. Maybe those roots are more beautiful than I give them credit for. I begin to prepare myself for a difficult conversation with my hairdresser.
“John*, I’m sorry… it’s not you… it’s me.”
*John has jobs like doing Jodie Comer's hair for the cover of Vogue, he'll be just fine.