Wednesday, February 3, 2016

Rage, rage against the dyeing of the white

(My most sincere, abject apologies to Dylan Thomas for this.)

I've had gray hair since I was 16. That's when I noticed the first one and my mother naturally insisted that no, it can't be a gray hair, it had to be Sun-In. Um, no. Because, you see, it wasn't 'orange'. And she went gray early. As did her mother as no doubt did all the women on that side back to when the first was naught but a silver-hued proto-plankton. So, it's in my blood, er, hair. Anyway, it's been 20-something years and thanks to the miracle of L'oreal, I've been able to hide the worst. Well, when I actually color it. Which I'm not right now because really, when you spend 75% of your day in a hair net, who the hell cares? Plus the whole 'do I dye it my 'natural' color or what it's going to fade to shade of sad' internal debate is too much most days to contemplate as my original color is a very dark brown (thanks, Dad) and the color fades to blonde so eh, gray it is.

Naturally, the gray is heaviest around my face, framing it. Like chrome rims only the opposite of cool. It's not super obvious when it's down (shut up and allow me my delusions) but pulled back? I might as well have a personal spotlight. (And to my sisters who were blessed with not only the lighter-colored hair to start but also the 'normal' graying cycle? If I ever hear either of you bitch about gray hair, duck because heavy objects will fly through the air with extreme prejudice. Just saying.)

Yesterday I hit the gym during my lunch break and since between the sweat and the hairnet/hardhat combo I was the epitome of sexiness, I decided that once I got home I'd use the dry shampoo I had bought for Noah's camping trip last fall. (Damn straight I brought dry shampoo to use in the woods because not only is my hair mostly gray, it's also fine and thin and therefore an oil slick. I like to pretend that I have some standards.) So I brushed out my hair, applied the dry shampoo, brushed it again and went on my merry way to Cub Scouts with Noah. It was totally so I wouldn't embarrass him and had nothing at all to do with not wanting to look (or smell) like I had just climbed out of a sewer. True story, swear to God.) I must not have brushed all the powder through my hair thoroughly enough because getting him ready for bed he said to me "Mommy, your hair is white."

"Yeah, I know bud."

"You're going to die soon."

Uh, okay.

"Well, I had a good run."

"Don't worry Mommy, just color your hair and you won't die!"

I'm not sure what concerns me more: that he doesn't seem to mind if I die or that cheap drugstore hair color is the fountain of youth after all. But at least my hair will be fabulous either way.

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