Los Angeles, the mystical land of botox and butt implants, is a place where people put more emphasis on their appearance than actually eating finger food at parties. Or conversations about the Kardashians. (Guilty of the latter.) Both are travesties. But since I already moved here alone from the opposite coast and quit my job on a whim—both of which make me a bonafide *rebel*—I find myself caring even less about how I look now than I used to. Weave included.
Take that, Instagram.
Pulling a Carrie Bradshaw, I died my hair for the first time ever shortly after my move, mostly in attempt to get over a guy and the heartbroken me. New beginnings, eh?
After almost a decade of wearing hair extensions, there was no way I was about to give them up. I was going though enough life changes, the last thing I needed was less voluminous hair. So I had my blonde weave died red.
Finally ready to return to the blonde, most “me” hair, I had to sacrifice the weave. My budget, rent, and Shake Shack religion didn’t allow it. Giving it up kind of hurt my soul, I won’t lie. I love long, luscious hair more than a cheesy gordita crunch (the Doritos version, obviously). However, since this has been the first time in a long time that I couldn’t spring $200+ on clip-ins, the outcome actually took me by surprise.
Going weave-free gave me a whole new take-it-or-leave-it attitude, as if rebelling against Superficialville didn’t do that enough. I feel more natural, liberated, and just flat-out free. And I haven’t bought a new one since.