I couldn't take it anymore.

Every time I looked in the mirror, the dark brown roots would taunt me. An ugly truth hidden peeking from the middle of my painstakingly painted highlights.

I can't be a brunette.

Some people look nice with brown hair. Angelina Jolie's doeish hue portrays a self-confidence not often seen in people who don't run small countries. Brown hair can be girl-next-door or perfectly coifed in a way my hair doesn't seem to grasp.

Brown hair can be a lot of things, but I can't bring myself to be it. I've always been blonde -- shocker, I know. When I was a kid, my hair was a blonde so perfectly highlighted the most world-renown hair dye makers would throw in the towel.

Then I got older and the dark cloud of brown moved through my hair like an eclipse. My brother embraced his dark hue. I continue to fight mine.

I went through box after box of hair dye, seeking to regain the golden shade of my youth. No box ever gave me that perfect color. This may be in part because as a poor high school student, I refused to pay more than $5 for anything. Quality, it seems, costs money.

Finally in college, I bit the bullet. I was tired of seeing blotches of brown when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror at just the right angle.

"Missed a spot," the blob of brown seemed to gloat.

I hate you blob.

I was sick of applying smelly liquid to my hair once a month. I wanted someone to do it for me.

"Your hair is kinda orange," the hairdresser said. "And it's a lot of different colors."

She colored it a very nice shade of light blonde, not quite the color of my youth, but close. Then she promptly cut 3 inches of my never-received-more-than-a-trim hair.

Traumatized is not a strong enough word.

"I'm bald!" I screamed into the phone at my now boyfriend. "She made me bald!"

After a dazed trip to the local grocery, during which I purchased blonde hair extensions and a visit to another hairdresser who informed me my hair would be long again by the holidays, I recovered -- barely.

I'm strangely attached to my hair, which may stem from the fact it is attached to me. I play with my hair when I'm deep in thought. I read Web sites learning the how-to's of up-do's.

But even with all the education, my hair has remained the same through much of my life. No-nonsense part down the middle, rest shoved behind my ears -- nature's bobby pin.

Sure, in my wild days I may have experimented with bangs, however I would wait too long between trims, leaving me a little less 80s mod and a little more cartoon shaggy dog.

I may have tried parting my hair on the side instead of the middle, which looking back was a little more Donald Trump than the modeling agency he owns.

So now I'm back to a hairstyle that doesn't cause me any trouble. Well, at least until the roots come back.