…looks absolutely fantastic on some people. It gives them an air of wisdom, an air of maturity, and sometimes an air of mystery, but for me, it’s just a sign of what’s come and gone. It’s a sign of getting old.
I was blessed with a thick mop of brunette hair. Thank God for the little things, right? I got the hair gene from my mother’s side I think. She’s always had thick hair and still does, and guess what? At seventy-seven there is still not one strand of gray to be found. My dad, well, not so much. He ended up with one of those Nero like rings of silver hair that started just above his ear and ended just above his ear. The rest of his balding head was fodder for many sunscreen debates.
I love, love, love my long tresses as does my husband. Doesn’t matter if I’m staying home, going to the gym, or going to grocery store–my hair is always washed and blown out into my usual style, unless of course it’s one of ‘those’ days whereupon I don a baseball cap. You know—the bad hair day where no gel or cream will tame it.
Okay so I’ve been in a hair rut for thirty some years but it seems to work for me. I think it’s my way of pretending that time has not slipped through my hands. I always wonder when I run into someone that I haven’t seen in a long time and they say “you look exactly like you did twenty years ago”. I’m never quite sure whether I should take this as a compliment that I have aged well, or , are they referring to the fact that I’m stuck in a rut. Mmmmm….
There are some things that change in our lives, like the location of our boobs and butts cheeks, our waistline, and our ability to stay awake past nine p.m. but, hair, well that’s something we can still control.
My motto is ‘there will nary be a gray hair on my head’. I just can’t let it happen! That ‘au natural’ thing is not for me. I’ve tried to go blonde once or twice but I could never live up to the jokes.
I’ve always said that when it comes to tell-tale signs of aging I’m going to go down hard.
I know I’ve said this out loud a few times because this always seems to make hubby’s ears perk up if he happens to hear me. Yeah, you guessed right, the boner thing again. What is with that man?
Sometimes I’ll be talking to a friend on the phone about this very subject unaware that he’s within listening distance. As soon as I hang, sometimes even before I hang up he’ll come strutting into the room with ‘that’ look on his face and a very obvious protrusion in his pants.
“Remind me to starch those pants,” I say.
He can see that I’ve already busied myself with whatever I was doing.
“Oh, okay,” he says shoving his hands in his pockets. Both his upper and lower posture changes and he slowly retreats to the other room. Poor baby!
What I want to know is why this gray hair never just flows into your regular hair. Mine always looks like bionic pubic hair on crack. It points straight up towards the sky, gleaming like a beacon screaming “look at me, look at me!”.
I remember Christmas shopping a few years back. I was at one of those large discount stores standing near a bin of ‘whatever’ when I noticed a mirrored wall directly behind it. I looked up to catch a glimpse of myself thinking that I’d looked reasonably hot when I left the house that morning but was devastated to see this one lousy gray hair in its gravity defying position.
Yep, it was like someone had rubbed a balloon on the top of my head to create that magnetic weirdness. It was crinkled and white as hell, about three inches tall, and stood out like a sore thumb against the chestnut of the rest of my head. It shone like a neon sign under those horrid flourescent lights.
I remember this lovely older woman sidling up beside me at the same time I’d made this discovery.
“Do you see that?” I asked her.
“See what?” she says.
“That,” I said.
“What,” she asked.
“That hair,” I said.
“Oh it’s lovely dear,” she said.
“What’s lovely about it?” I asked.
“It looks good on you,” she replied.
“How does that look good?” I queried.
“It’s hair…it looks good,” she replied.
“What…are you blind?” I said.
Of course this is when I notice the turban and the dark glasses she’s wearing.
I look down, and yes, there it is…the seeing eye dog. Yep, he’s got the vest and everything.
“Maybe you should buy a hat asshole?” she said calling on the dog to lead her away from me.
This, of course, put an end to my festive shopping. Instead I headed to the drug store for hair dye.
Standing in front of the mirror in my bathroom an hour later, my head smeared with dark cream, I leaned forward to take a gander at my eyebrows.
There it was!
One little gray mother-fucker sticking out away from the natural path of the others. Only this kind of close-up inspection would reveal such a betrayer. I reached up, stuck my finger into the shiny hair dye and dabbed it onto both my eyebrows. I stood there looking like a Harpo Marx stand in waiting for the timer to ring out that youth had been restored.
That was when another thought hit me. Oh no! What about…?
I had my first Brazillion later that day!