Hee! Hair!
Yup, it's been gray since my early 30s, white since 40. Genetic thing.
Oh my, hair stories!
Yep, I have colored it off and on. Brown (originally dark brown), reddish, blonde, blonder, blonde as a gold Christmas ornament from KMart, ash blonde, light ash brown was the last one. In between, in my forties, I had it grown out white for a long time, about six years, and used blue shampoo occasionally. (But not often enough to become a card-carrying bluehair.) I actually loved it. My friends loved it. My child loved it. Men looked but the only ones to ask me out were way older. I kid you not! The only date I had for years after my divorce (a lot my doing, since I was retreating then too) was a 75 y/o pediatrician. Very nice fellow. But I'm sitting in his SUV while he's trying to peer over the wheel, and I'm a pretty svelte 45, got a dimple, and he's chatting away happily about what we'll do "next". Vat vas rongk vit dis pictoor?
So I consult the gfs, and they say, silly, if a white-haired man looks across the room and sees your white hair, it doesn't matter if the face under it looks young, he thinks you're just right for him.
So back I went to the box. Problem was, my white hair was a tempting canvas. And one night I'm bored, wandering around the drugstore, and I see a nice looking color, brown with some red. Cool! But I didn't read the box...it was one of those colors that says in the small print "not recommended for those with over 50% gray". Whoops! My hair came out like a flourescent fuschia...a color never seen in nature, not even in a sunset. The very best part was the next morning at work. (I was a director then, at a publishing company, and staff were forever wandering in and out of my office...they'd just walk in talking about whatever it was, since I was a low-key boss and didn't need formalities.) The BEST part about my fuschia head was that all morning long, about every thirty minutes, someone would walk into my office and scream. It was so funny! Then I went and got it fixed at a salon.
Then a year ago, for my 55th birthday, I quit. I'd been coloring it myself for a long time to save money and hated the process, plus I was back at this very sexist university where I work, and getting pissed off about ageism and sexism. It was a rebellious thing, and also a self-affirming thing, to stop. For the first few months people would glance at my creeping white roots as though, aren't you forgetting to take care of yourself? But now it's halfway out and it's obvious I've made a choice. People say nice things, and I like it.
I had started to realize that when I looked in the mirror and my white roots were showing I felt a surge of panic, like, oh god I've got to cover this up! It was as though I was afraid of my hair. Then I started thinking about the culture...our obession with youth, realizing that for me personally, it was internalizing something hurtful. I wanted to find myself okay with my real hair. (I still do a little makeup and like pretty clothes. It was that the hair was something I had begun in my 50s to feel I had to hide, like I was obeying a rule someone--this whole damn culture--had given me. You are not allowed to age.) Natch, show me the rule that says what a woman's not allowed to do...and I want to break it if I'm brave enough.
This was not real bravery, mind you. Superficial. But at the time it felt like a big decision.
Thanks for being curious, P! I know what you mean about enjoying dyeing it too, because for many years, I really enjoyed my color. It was fun.
Hugs,
Hops
