Fight the Power. Stay Informed.
Watching her choose the color of her hair was like being present as Michelangelo painted the Cistene Ceiling. For the next three to six months she was going to look exactly like the girl on that box, and I could tell that she took this seriously. The indecision that she exuded was almost tangible as she ran her fingers meticulously through the various sample locks of colored mane. I watched as she scanned the aisles for her perfect new look. She was beautiful. Her long blonde hair rested on her shoulder as a baby's head would rest on a mother's. Kneeling down, she pushed her hair gently behind her ear to get a better look at the model on the front of the box. I saw perfection in her eyes, she saw it only in these boxes. I was embarrassed. I hoped to never see this girl again for fear that she would be even more stunning with her new look, even though I doubted the possibility. Biting her lip, she looked around with fleeting glances. She was looking for someone. A husband? A boyfriend? Someone needed to affirm the decision, for it would affect everyone that looked at her. I would not have been much help, speechless. Suddenly a woman approached her. She was loud and boisterous. You could sense by their dynamic that she was the girl's mother. "Did you pick one yet?" she said, frustration pouring off her brow. "I just don't want you to be at my party with your hair looking like that." I cringed at the utter blindness of the statement. This girl was a goddess, but it still wasn't enough for her mother. I wondered if the young woman even wanted to change herself. I began to see the motive behind her indecision. It was because it wasn't her decision at all. As I walked away, I silently hoped that she stayed beautiful, and that someday, someone would tell her. Today I saw Helen of Troy changing herself.