Lemondrop

Maybe you think the pursuit of perfect hair is a complete waste of time. Or maybe you're the type who's willingly spent your income and many time-consuming hours wrestling with a curling iron.

I think it's tough to deny that when you find a fabulous haircut (or fresh new hair color), a boost in mood is only one of the many positive side effects a person can experience.

Hair, like it or not, can make us feel confident and sexy, sloppy or sad. And sometimes, it can even transform a person -- physically and emotionally.

As a ballet dancer from the ages of 8 to 18, I was a perennial "bunhead" who nerdily paraded my tightly hairnetted bump with pride. I couldn't care less about my hair -- as long as it didn't get in my face or interfere with my dancing. I don't think I was even aware of what my natural hair texture was until I finally let it down one night at the age of 17.

Color was a different story. From the Smurf-blue streak a model sported in a magazine I saved from the eighth grade to Gwen Stefani's candy-pink locks in the "Simple Kind of Life" video, I dreamed of rock-star hair in pastel hues. (Jem was -- and remains -- my style icon.) Unfortunately, classical ballet and Candyland hair don't quite go hand in hand, so I could only tentatively explore some moderate changes, like chestnut-brown highlights. Yawn.

I tried slightly more noticeable hues, and a few hideous looks in between, like my dramatic attempt to look like Monica Bellucci when I dyed my hair jet black. But despite the experimentation, I hadn't yet found a hair color that was really me. Still, I didn't want to go back to my mousy, brown, God-given shade either. So, I made a bold decision.

Hollywood icons have inspired the hairstyles of many, but in my case I took cues from the streets of Russia, where I was studying abroad: namely, the unnatural, peroxided-blond shades of young women in St. Petersburg.

This is it, I thought. My hair future.

Aided by vodka (when in Rome ...), I took the plunge and went platinum.

When you have dark hair to begin with, the transition to bleached blond is a tricky one. After going through several dye jobs -- and from honey to ash to champagne -- I finally achieved the Holy Grail of blondness: a light white shade that looked heavily processed ... and completely fabulous.

The new hair was kind of thrilling. I've never attracted so much attention in my life, and while not all attention is good attention, even the sleazy catcalls brought a wry smile to my face. The funny thing is, as high-maintenance as platinum blonde hair seems like it would be, in terms of day-to-day lifestyle, it's the perfect hair for any lazy-rotter type, which I consider myself to be.

Unlike every other hair color I'd tried, which would wash me out and require stage-makeup levels of mascara, eyeliner and blush just so I'd look like I had a pulse, I didn't need to do anything when I was a blonde. In fact, overdo the makeup and I risked looking like Julia Roberts in the first half hour of "Pretty Woman." (This was also true of wardrobe choices, so the miniskirts and stilettos were reserved for special occasions like Halloween.) Another bonus? I've never -- before or since -- felt so glamorous in sweatpants and a messy ponytail.

I felt revitalized, confident and as if my hair finally matched my personality: adventurous, wild and a little kooky. This was what had been eluding me in my coloring experiments in the past. Who knew it would take something so artificial-looking to make me feel my most natural?

There were, of course, issues to deal with. Platinum hair requires constant upkeep, with touch-ups every three-to-four weeks to camouflage the angry dark roots that would emerge (see photo at left) and undermine my pristine blond locks. Financially speaking, there's a reason this hair color is best suited to the Paris Hiltons of the world.

I found a L'Oréal training salon in Paris, where I had since moved, willing to keep me blond for free in exchange for the humiliation of being gawked at by trainee hairdressers on a spotlit stage. Unfortunately, from about the third or fourth visit, my scalp started burning from irritation to the dye, but I was so hooked on the color (and the free salon trips) that I kept coming back. Until, after a year and a half of being blonde, my hair was too damaged to ignore: limp, dry-as-hay and breaking off in clumps in the shower.

With hair loss on the agenda, it was time to reevaluate my tresses. As much as I loved the color, I had to admit that there was something kind of trailer-trashy about it. As for the exciting attention? It too quickly felt like unwanted harassment.

I'm back to brunette these days, with healthier hair -- and wearing copious amounts of blush. There are few (if any) catcalls, but I'm happy with my tamer look and I will always think fondly of my days as a blonde.