My mother says that she always wanted two little redheaded girls. And that's what she got. My sister has blue eyes and I have green, but we're true redheads down to the freckles. Somewhere, tucked away in cellophane, are wispy locks of red baby hair from our first haircuts. Proof of our origins, I suppose. As we're neither Irish nor Scottish (Russian and Romanian), I consider the red hair a minor miracle, or maybe just a stray gene from a redheaded mailman passing through a shtetl a few hundred years ago.

This is what my hair looked like two days ago. It's naturally a slightly darker copper, but I had it highlighted with blond and light red. (I'm careful about that, though. Once you start lightening your hair, it's hard to stop. I almost wound up a blond a few years ago.)

My hair needed a trim and my soul needed some love, so I went to the one person who can provide both: my hair stylist. I've known Ron for six years. He knows all my secrets. He also knows when I'm feeling down, and I haven't been a happy camper lately. Let's brighten you up, he said.

Okay.

This is what my hair looks like today. Ron put most of a bottle of copper glaze on my hair, piled it on top of my head, wrapped it in cellophane, and let me bake under a hot dryer for twenty minutes. Then he rinsed it out, cut the ends off, and blow-dried it with a big round brush until it was sleek. It practically glows. It's the color of a newly minted penny. It's the color I had as a child. It's fun.

It will fade, of course, and mellow to a gentler color. I washed it this morning and the color is softer already. It's still startling, though, much more so in person. It's really red. And while I'm still stressed and sad, at least my hair makes me smile.

(As an aside, I sent the "after" picture to Tony, who wrote back, "Now you just look like a fake redhead." I'd like to take this opportunity to give him a big Bronx cheer. TTHHHPPPTT!)