Does Hair Colour Really Matter?

Faced with the reality of having to actually go out there and date again, I started taking inventory of where to go and what to wear.

I wasn't ready for my discovery.  Gone were the days when jeans and cowboy boots were good enough to wear out and a beer was the drink of choice.

Now, everything glittered and glowed and bubbled with fake enthusiasm.

I did not.

Everyone looked the same.  Men sported the same GQ look and women wore the mandatory 5 inch heels, short dress and red lips.  Authenticity seemed to be lacking.

It was then I knew I didn't fit in and I felt an old familiar feeling creep up inside me.

At a young age, I became acutely aware of what it meant to be different.  Growing up as a first generation Canadian was not without challenges.

I could speak another language, which according to my Anglo friends, was just "weird".   I also ate strange things for lunch. They didn't know what frittata was and they surely didn't understand why my family would spend one weekend at the end of every summer jarring tomatoes.

Then there were the other first generation Canadian friends.  I remember coming home from school in grade one, tears streaming down my face, inconsolable.

You see, I was the only Audrey in a sea of Maria's. The only blonde in a blanket of brunettes.  My light eyes were freakishly bright compared to the chestnut ones that stared back.

I didn't want to be different.  I wanted to blend in.  With either side. 

Funny how things change.

I can't imagine blending in anymore.