There is snow on the rooftop and it is really irritating my husband. Consequently, he is irritating me.
We are not talking ice on the eaves or leaks through the bedroom ceilings here. We are referring to what my grandmother so genteelly called “a woman’s shining glory”; we are referring to the fact that it has been almost three months since I colored my hair.
Roots do not lie and mine plainly say, “Give it over, girl, you are grey.” There is not even a smidge on the back of my head of my original auburn color. I cannot deny it...and funnily enough, I don’t want to anymore.
Yes, much to my husband and hairstylist’s chagrin, I am ready to let my hair go grey. I am ready to graceful recline into my mature years, and sink comfortably into my declining ones if my hair chooses to go even further by turning totally white (Did I say choosing? Heck, it is practically racing to that point and I swear I hear it laughing).
My head of auburn hair was considered my ‘one beauty’, much like Jo’s chestnut mane in the classic favorite of my childhood, Little Women. It drew attention to me when nothing else did and everyone (O.K. – not everyone but a significant number) exclaimed over its color, shine, and even length (it was the 70’s after all).
Yet, my hair always had one fatal flaw for which I can happily point the finger at my mother. For the only thing I inherited from her side of the family, was the tendency to premature grayness. Yes, by the time she was in her 20’s her hair was salt and pepper. By the time, I was in my twenties, the sides of my hair at the temples where solid white.
Thus began my adventure into the world of hair color. In your twenties, it is fun, and even turns into a statement. Outside of carrot top, my hair has been every shade of red imaginable, from midnight burgundy (NOT a great look for me) to even pink (yes, that’s what white hair does when it meets temporary color; it washes out to pink. Perfect fodder for siblings to make fun of and my sister did).
Therefore, I’ve colored, highlighted, foiled, and low lighted. I’ve streaked, permed, and even baked it with lemon juice in the sun. I have tried every means of camouflage available to the modern woman, but time and apparently, my own sense of honesty has caught up with me. Somewhere in my thirties, the whole process began to irritate me.
Searching the depths of my vanity in my forties, I find that I am not bothered by it any longer. I’m not concerned with youngness or even oldness anymore. Like artificial fingernails and elaborate ruffled, embroidered peasant shirts, I have outgrown having to color my hair. I am no longer fearful of a world where youth is queen and worshiped quite literally to death (why won’t Mary Kate Olsen eat? She and her sister have more money then God and could be bouncing around the world enjoying their youth and doing great things. Oh well, I digress.)
I am not afraid of moving forward in time. I am not standing around wishing I was 25 again – I didn’t ‘do’ my twenties particularly well and like my high school years, happily waved them goodbye. As an old soul, I finally feel my body is catching up with the rest of me. I am proud of my maturity and while the days of party hardy are over, I still have sufficient strength to frolic with the best of them, even as I don’t go beyond one drink and like to get home before midnight.
It’s odd how people get to one stage in time, probably the silliest (Thank you, C.S. Lewis), and want to stay there. There is no courage in that, no individuality, and no sense of adventure. Why deciding to go gray is as natural as deciding to take the next step forward into the big picture of life!
Yet my husband is still kvetching. He wants his redhead back. I have pointed out to him that my natural color had darn near little to due with naturalness even before he met me. It’s pointless to argue it seems…
Until I showed him a slip of paper that added up the cost of coloring my hair over one year’s time; I haven’t heard a moan out of him in three days. I guess he’s come to terms with it.
So let the great adventure continue, gray hair and all! My man is staunchly supporting me. Well, if not me, our bankbook at the very least.
