My pregnancy rebellion

Wed, 11 Apr 2012 00:00:00 +0000

I did a bad, bad thing the other day: Visibly pregnant, I went to a beauty salon and had my hair dyed. That may not seem like a big deal to those unfamiliar with American pregnancy culture, but to see the faces of the other women in the salon you would have thought I had walked in the door with a joint and a half-empty handle of vodka.

I considered explaining to them that I had researched the topic thoroughly and found that modern hair dye chemicals likely pose little risk to a fetus in the third trimester. I considered mentioning that, just to be extra cautious, I was getting a semi-permanent color to limit my exposure to ammonia fumes. Instead, I buried myself in a copy of Us Weekly and tried to ignore the whispers of the other patrons.

I never thought I would be the type of person who would risk public scorn to get her roots touched up. I’ve grown increasingly granola-y over the past few years, and my forays into investigative journalism have made me wary of certain chemicals in cosmetics and other personal care products. These days, I consider myself dressed up if I leave the house wearing deodorant, let alone mascara. But that was before I was initiated into the world of upper-middle-class American pregnancy with all its hysteria and paranoia, and began feeling the urge to rebel.

Salon.com > Marie C. Baca

My pregnancy rebellion