Here it comes. Yup. Another birthday. Like all other biological functions, they come without our consent.
Some of us fight them with plastic – both credit cards and implants; others – we just go with the flow.
I started showing grey in my late twenties, and I didn’t cover any of it until I hit my forties and my hairdresser suggested we try something to “ease” the transition. We started alternating my grey with light blonde highlights. Those of you who knew me then, probably remember that phase. Pinky swear you will talk about me with kindness.
In a moment of desperation (I was spending more on my grey than on the monthly grocery bill raising three teens), I bought a box of Clairol for eight bucks and went Vampire Black. When my hairdresser saw that, she acquiesced and suggested something “softer.” She mixed up a batch of “chocolate brown,” and that was my signature for the next ten years.
Four years ago I decided to be totally honest with who I was – one hot, earthy, mama – and embrace my boomerism. When I told my hairdresser and my family that I was going grey, there was protest all around. My greyness offended those who measured their quasi-youth by mine. Too bad.
When she retired, I saw my chance. I chopped all my hair to less than one inch in length and went cold turkey. I hear Aveda and Clairol took quite a hit in sales back then, but I didn’t care. For several months my head looked more like a clump of dry oregano than the salt and pepper it is now. The grey-headed chick in the mirror still catches me off guard sometimes.
I cannot erase the wrinkles; discussing my moustache is taboo, but the greying – that I embrace.