Barbie Doll in a Blazer: My identity crisis… and my hair.

What you’re about to see, is evidence of a self diagnosed identify crisis. How I dealt with becoming an adult professional after years of being a young, fun loving, party attending uni student:

5 different hairstyles in less than 2 months.

My hair hates me.

My hairdresser loves me.

It all started not so long ago, when I was still still at uni….  I was one of those people who cruised though uni. I would do assignments the night before and get good grades, I went out pretty often, stayed up late, attended as many uni parties as I could. It was pretty awesome. (Side note Hannah everyone, if you’re at uni, don’t take it for granted – go out lots and attend as many parties as you can!!)


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Anyway, stright after uni and having just turned 21, I got myself a job, the kind of job that requires lot of hard work, long days, and communication with executives, and very senior people within the business.

So, within a very short amount of time, I’d gone from PARRRRTAAAAY to, like, an old serious adult. I really wanted to be respected in my new job. So I decided to take out my extensions.

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It was better, but not great. I still didn’t like being blonde, here I am as a 21 year old girl trying to be respected by a building of professionals, I felt like such a bimbo! And I was graduating the next week, I definitely didn’t want to look like a barbie for that, so, I went brown.


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URGH too serious! Too serious! I can’t go out and have pretty hair! Everyone at this pub can tell I’m a fake and a really belong at home getting an early night because I need to keep a steady routine so that I don’t burn out because I’m working 12 hour days. Oh God every one in there thinks I’m like 30. I LOOK THIRTY.

Seriously, you’re interrupting my thoughts to ask if i want a Jägerbomb? Don’t be ridiculous, order me a chardonnay.

Damn. That just happened. I need my extensions back.


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hmmm…  Now I’m too party girl. I’ll never be respected.




So I’ve ended up here. Full blown professional. My hairdresser (who thanks to my personal crisis has recently purchased a  jet) says my hair is falling out, so I’ve decided so stay with this as long as I can.

But in all seriousness, it’s really hard trying to figure out who I am right now. It’s so hard to be so professional and act on par with senior people in the business, then come the weekend snap into being 21 again and head off to get smashed at the sporty[1].

I think I’ve finally realised (possibly too late) that the answer does not lie in my hair. Not that I know where it does lie, but there’s every chance changing my hair color and length every week won’t make me realise who I am and restore balance to my life.

For now, I’ll just keep pushing through and trying to be both. At some point, it’ll figure it’self out I’m sure, until then all I can do is figure out what makes me the most happy, and do as much of that as I can!


1. Sporty BRITISH noun 

  1. 1.
    an establishment for the sale overly expensive of beer and other drinks. It includes underage girls with barely any clothes dancing up an sleezy boys; revolting toilets; and a $10 cover charge and hour long line for the privilege of entering. Found in the regional town of Warragul.
    “I feel like having my feet stuck to the floor, let’s go to the sporty”





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