My silver mane is my thing.
It’s my signature, my shining glory and the more I look like I’ve had a blue rinse, the better.
There was a time when the dip-dyed trend was my go-to preference, but as I began to slide towards mystical unicorn rather than wannabe Chung, letting my roots grow through quickly became a thing of the past.
It didn’t matter where I was – on the beach or in a public toilet – there was always someone who popped up behind me to say, “Oh my god I love your hair!”
That was until alas the bump appeared.
As soon as I knew I was expecting, the thought of plastering bleach on to my head seemed somehow irresponsible.
I simply cannot find any solid answer.
Will it harm my baby or not?
After hours of searching and forgetting to ask my midwife every time I had an appointment (excitement at baby’s heartbeat or exceptionally long legs took over), the moment just passed me by.
Not being able to have my hair done was at first, torturous.
Yes, yes, I know that sounds selfish because you’re right: I have a miracle person inside me.
But what do you do when you don’t feel like you anymore?
Apart from closing your eyes every time you look in the mirror or trying out the effects of talcum powder on that new dark runway strip on your head, you have to just crack on and make a decision.
Either do it or don’t.
Right now, at 20 weeks, I’ve decided no.
I’ve turned all hippy-esque and embraced the new pregnant edition of moi.
If Blake Lively can rock the roots, so can I God dammit.
It’s not forever.
It’s not the worst thing in the world.
My hair colour doesn’t have to define me if I don’t say so although admittedly, that’s been a hard corner to turn.
Some people get to grips with these new lifestyle changes more than others and for a couple of weeks I struggled.
But I’ve realised some people ask for this chance all their lives; some people don’t get to experience being pregnant so I’m positively trying to enjoy every aspect of these weeks.
Hair is hair at the end of the day.
And I’m still me, roots and all!