My nickname in residency was Code Red. There were many reasons for this, not the least of which being that I had red hair. Generally speaking, people either fear or lust after the red hair, either way you are likely to get what you want.
I started dying my hair in college and over the years it has become so much a part of who I am, that people who know me often cannot separate the two. If you ask, I will freely tell you it is fake, but few people seem to remember it later.
For years, I was too cheap to pay someone to do my hair. Instead, I would sequester myself in the bathroom for a few hours and get high on the ammonia. Gag. Sometimes it worked great. Sometimes not.
Finally, I gave up.
I first met my stylist ten years ago. She was the daughter of one of the medical assistants at the office. I quickly found she was an artist, the kind of person you could trust to do amazing things to your hair. She never screwed it up; all I had to do was let her have free reign. I had never really thought of myself as being beautiful in any way until she got hold of me.
As it turns out, salon appointments are great therapy. Every six weeks I get to wash off all of the residue and negative build-up that has accumulated since my last visit and start fresh. It is amazing how cathartic that is. Clean up the hair, clean up the mind and soul. Cheaper than therapy!