You would think that after the home perm fiasco that transformed me into the only white kid with an afro and the Shirley Temple experiment when I awoke in the morning with the pain of pink, plastic rollers imbedded in my head, that I would have decisively said no to any new beauty tip my mother proposed. But no, I had to do as I was told and live life addicted to a dressed-up bottle of peroxide. A moment of clarity finally came during my college days, and I decided it was time for blond hair rehabilitation to take place.

Unbeknownst to my mother and me, my natural hair color had changed during my L'Oreal days. I entered a salon one day a long-haired girl with locks of blonde and walked away with short hair of a boring brown shade. I suddenly became unrecognizable to people who had known me intimately. It was fun achieving anonymity. My mother was a bit shocked, but I was rather pleased with the new me.

It may have taken me ten years to progress to the level of shave-your-head-bravery, but now I know I'd choose bald over blond any day. True, a bald girl may get a few stares of incredulity and have a few more brushes with the law, but my new addiction is now a natural one - simplicity. A bottle of shampoo can last my lifetime; my hair is dry before I leave the bathroom; and I no longer worry when the wind blows. Hair-free is certainly quite carefree.

Article by Jamie Boylard, which appeared originally in Dish Magazine.