I think rainbow-colored hair is the last bastion of vanity. You know your hair isn't actually prismatic, and you're clearly not reminding yourself you used to be mousey brown either. Ahem. My revelation came between ice cream and pasta. Five minutes earlier, during a dinner, I had been trying to work out which Crayola-colored hue one of the women was channeling. Sod it, I thought, I'm going to copy her. By the time I finished both dishes, I had made a decision—to ditch the blond and paint my hair all kinds of juicy. Or more precisely, in homage to the summer fruit of my youth.
You haven't tasted a peach until you've tried a South African cling peach. When you bite into the soft flesh, it explodes into a glorious tune, covering hands, chin, and clothes in juice. And you won't be bothered one bit. Growing up with those hot summers of peaches, nectarines, and apricots does something to a girl. You know that magic hour, just before the sun sets and the sky is a dreamy shade of—insert whatever color you want here but I'm going with—peachy, mango, tangerine, cotton-candy loveliness.
It's not neon or bright; it's hazy and mellow. The more you look at it the better it gets. That's what I want to channel. Peaches shimmer, don't they? So it would be only natural that somewhere amid the palette, flecks of gold and effervescent champagne would vie for their place in the sun.
I think this combination would make the apples of my cheeks glow, almost like a built-in blush and very handy for when the asphalt's rising. A peach is an exclamation point. It's hair with the volume turned up. This kind of color dissipates quickly, which is precisely the point because it's more sensual than saccharine. Denim jeans keep getting better in all their faded glory. I'll just need a minimalist palette-cleansing white tee on loop. I always think of women in the '60s in those great pastel shades. Who wouldn't want to be one of them?