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Six months ago, brown-haired Anna Chapman -- the Russian spy caught this week by the FBI -- morphed into a redhead (that's her below, at right, with Lady Liberty). In fact, "I want red" is what she told her hairdresser the moment she plopped down in the chair. I can relate, both to the desire to go ginger itself and to what Ms. Chapman must have felt when she saw her new 'do in the mirror.

Of course, I'm no spy. Perhaps she felt the fake color completed her fake identity, or maybe it's simply easier to live a life of secrets and lies if you see someone different staring back at you in the mirror. Whatever her reasons, I'm not surprised she chose red. For someone with a business card that says "Explore the possibilities," red is too alluring to deny. I, too, love red hair, albeit for very different reasons. And, no, I'm not on the Kremlin's payroll. Here's why I did it ...

When I was a teenager with dirty blond locks, I longed for it. A fan of old films, I associated the personalities of my favorite red-haired movie stars with their hair color, as if Katharine Hepburn, Maureen O'Hara and Deborah Kerr were witty, fearless and stylish simply because they sported fiery locks. I believed that natural redheads like Marilyn Monroe and Ginger Rogers kept the spirit of their red-haired roots long after they went platinum. When Alfred Hitchcock needed a body double for Janet Leigh, who wasn't willing to bare it all in "Psycho"'s shower scene, he found -- you guessed it -- a redhead who was up to the task.

That's why, when I arrived at college, dying my hair was as high on my list of priorities as avoiding 8 a.m. classes and buying flip-flops for the dorm's showers. Some of my fellow students got tattoos; others pierced body parts. I coated my hair in a chemical solution deliciously named "chocolate cherry." The shimmery, dark red color transformed me from clueless freshman to cosmopolitan woman -- at least in my own mind. Needless to say, I loved it.

Over the next few years I sampled a whole spectrum of colors -- brunette, strawberry, platinum blond -- as well as highlights, but none invoked the same sense of confidence as red. I gradually stopped dying my hair altogether, but as my 30th birthday approached and I attempted a new career after being laid off, I had begun to feel like a somewhat faded version of myself, as if I had become the muted shade of my now–light brown hair. The familiar urge returned. I craved color.

A decade had passed since my first experience with red hair, and I was no longer a 19-year-old in search of herself. Instead, I was a 29-year-old who wanted to feel like herself again. I visited a New York salon and looked for something resembling chocolate cherry in a book of hair color swatches. My color choice made, I waited with anticipation while the colorist -- coincidentally a redhead -- carefully painted over each brown strand. The salon was under renovation so I didn't see my new 'do until it was completely finished.

"It's like you're on one of those makeover shows," the colorist said, ushering me over to a floor-to-ceiling mirror. I looked at the red-tressed person in the glass and grinned.

Recently, I stopped to get coffee at a cafe in my neighborhood. The barista, who had barely ever spoken a word to me, exclaimed, "I didn't recognize you! What a change -- it looks great!" Thanking her, I picked up the to-go cup and, channeling my favorite silver screen heroines -- and maybe a pinch of secret agent -- donned my sunglasses as I headed out to the street. I think this time around, I may stay a redhead for good.

Amber Angelle is a freelance writer in Brooklyn. Her most recent article was published in Discover magazine. She'll say au revoir to her 20s in August.
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