The night my BF told me he’d end our relationship if I dyed my dark brown hair a slightly warmer shade of red, I laughed because I was certain he had to be joking. Then I asked him twice more, and each time, without hesitation, Jason said the same thing: “Yes, Emily. I’d break up with you.” It took me another week to understand that the argument was never really about my hair.
Chapter 3
I did something the next morning I normally would have considered inappropriate.
I messaged Melissa.
I kept it simple.
Hi. I’m Emily. I’ve been dating Jason. I realize this may be awkward, and you don’t owe me a response. I just wanted to ask one question. Did he ever try to control the way you looked?
Her reply came an hour later.
How much time do you have?
We met for coffee two days afterward.
Melissa was fifty, warm, funny, and nothing like the bitter former girlfriend Jason had vaguely described. Her copper hair was shorter now. A small silver stud glimmered in her nose.
When I told her about my hair, she closed her eyes.
“Oh, Lord.”
“So it happened to you too?”
“He hates red hair now?”
“Apparently.”
She laughed softly.
“He used to love it.”
“What changed?”
“I stopped asking permission.”
Melissa stirred her coffee.
For years, she explained, Jason had opinions about nearly everything she wore. He preferred long hair, minimal makeup, conservative dresses, no facial piercings. If she questioned him, he’d say everyone was entitled to preferences.
“That’s exactly what he says.”
“He isn’t wrong,” Melissa replied. “We’re all entitled to preferences. The problem is Jason thinks his preferences create obligations for everyone around him.”
She had bleached her hair blond because he liked blondes.
She hated it.
When the damage became severe, she let it grow out and eventually colored it red.
Jason complained for months.
“Why didn’t you leave sooner?”
Melissa smiled sadly.
“Same reason most people don’t. Nothing seemed big enough by itself.”
That answer stayed with me.
Nothing seemed big enough by itself.
A comment about a dress.
A joke about an earring.
A look when the wrong song played.
A complaint about hair.
Each moment was small enough to dismiss.
But a life isn’t experienced as individual moments.
They accumulate.
A week later, Jason called and asked whether we could meet one final time.
I agreed.
We met at a neighborhood restaurant where we’d had our first date.
When he arrived, he looked tired.
“I miss you,” he said.
I believed him.
That was what made the conversation difficult.
“I miss parts of us too.”
His eyes brightened. “Then why are we doing this?”
“Because missing someone isn’t the same thing as being good together.”
He shook his head. “You’re turning one stupid argument into my whole personality.”
“No. The argument made me examine everything else.”
“Like what?”
I told him I had spoken to Melissa.
His face changed immediately.
“You contacted my ex?”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“Was she lying?”
“She hates me.”
“Did you complain about her red hair?”
He looked away.
“Did you tell her how to dress?”
“Couples talk about those things.”
“Did she bleach her hair because you wanted her to?”
No answer.
I leaned closer.
“Jason, I’m not asking whether you ever loved her. I’m not even asking whether you love me. I think you probably do, in your way.”
“In my way?”
“But your way has conditions.”
“Everybody’s love has conditions.”
“Not like this.”
His jaw tightened.
“So you’re just done.”
“Yes.”
“Because of your hair.”
“No.”
I touched the ends of my auburn hair.
“Because when I changed my hair, you showed me what would happen every time I changed in a way you hadn’t approved.”
He looked genuinely wounded.
And for a moment, I almost comforted him.
That was another habit I had to unlearn.
Jason sat quietly.
Eventually he said, “I never thought I was controlling you.”
“I believe that.”
He looked surprised.
“Then why won’t you give me another chance?”
“Because whether you intended it doesn’t change what it did to me.”
His eyes lowered.
“I would’ve gotten used to the hair.”
“I know.”
That was the strangest part.
His original threat had already disappeared. Once I actually dyed it, he hadn’t left. He had negotiated. Backtracked. Claimed it was a joke.
The threat had never been about an impossible preference.
It had been leverage.
“Would you change it back?” he asked.
I smiled sadly.
“No.”
“Not even if that was what it took?”
“Especially not then.”
We paid separately.
Outside, Jason stood beside my car for a moment.
“I really did love you.”
“I know.”
“Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“It counts for what it was.”
He looked like he wanted a different answer.
I couldn’t give him one.
I hugged him once.
Then I got in my car and drove away.
At the first stoplight, I turned on the music.
An old folk-rock song Jason hated filled the car.
My hand automatically moved toward the volume knob.
Then I stopped.
I turned it louder.
