I recently dyed my hair pink. I have finally gone and fulfilled the wishes of my 10-year-old-Avril Lavigne-obsessed self. In doing so, I seem to have opened quite the can of worms, wondering why more parts of my childhood haven’t followed me into my twenties.
Like many, time spent playing when I was little meant pretending. Whether that was pretending to be a teacher and making little homework books for each cuddly-toy pupil, then subsequently setting some homework, doing the homework, and then marking said homework (admin can be fun!). Or pretending that the different rooms in our house were different parts of America. (Bedroom, Las Vegas, living room New York and the garden, Delaware of course!) It was in this fantasy setting that I played out the melodramatic lives of my Barbies and Bratz dolls.
Alongside watching TV and playing Swingball on my own (#onlychild), pretending was my main ‘hobby’. One that quickly became socially unacceptable to continue with after a certain age. As I got older, I never replaced this hobby with anything else. This leaves me hugely envious of adults who have hobbies. Crochet, embroidery and playing an instrument make up some of the hobbies of my vastly more talented girlfriends.
However, in my living room, I am confronted daily with a thriving hobby metropolis, as I watch my boyfriend happily painting Warhammer figures, playing video games and (apparently equally thrillingly) watching others play video games. Sometimes all at once! Whilst this may not be everybody’s cup of tea, amongst many these types of pastimes are very much celebrated and encouraged. And of course, such communities are made up of plenty of female identifying people too, of whom I am also extremely jealous!
I am longing for it to be acceptable for me to bring my childhood hobbies back out and act out the soap opera stylings of my key doll characters such as Sandi Égo (yes, a real name by seven-year-old me). I feel like, in terms of hobbies I was forced to grow up very quickly. Even in my pretending, I was playing out the actions of Barbie 20-somethings about town, or of a Miss Honey-esque primary teacher. I can’t decide whether I’m annoyed at men for their nourished inner children or just at myself for my lack of imagination when many other adult women seem to have managed the art of hobbies just fine.
Or maybe I am still making stuff up, only now adults call it ‘starting a business’. Not quite pretending, but certainly bestowing upon myself a role. And without question, in doing so comes an almighty imposter syndrome which constantly teases me with the question: is this real? So perhaps pretending still is my hobby. But in that case… my hobby is my job, and I’m still without a hobby! Anyway, that’s me, pink hair and hobbyless. If I dye my hair every week does it count as a hobby?
