I started turning grey in my 30’s, and by 50, my hair was all “salt and pepper”. Before my hair turned grey, it was almost black/brown. I missed it, but never thought I’d do anything about it. Then one day a few years ago, I was checking out at the IGA, and the girl asked me if I was eligible for the senior discount. I asked her how old I had to be to get it and she said 65. I was 53 at the time. I would like to say that her comment did not bother me. I decided that night to get my hair colored.
I walked into the salon with grey hair, and came out with dark brown. It was an utter shock. I thought I looked a lot younger. Jack didn’t like it, but didn’t dare say anything. I tried to love it. After only a week, the grey roots began to show. Believe it or not, I had never thought about this. I called my hair stylist in a panic wondering what to do. He said that I needed to get a touch-up stick which amounted to coloring the grey with a sticky crayon. It felt gross but looked better than grey roots and dark hair. For a number of months, I kept going back, trying things that would make the grey look less obvious; went a shade lighter, got it “foiled”….I ended up sort of blond.
I was never comfortable with my hair colored. If I had been, it would still be brown today, because I loved going to the salon; sitting in the chair with the plastic cap on my head as the color developed, watching the stylists cut the other customer’s hair and talk about their lives. I even like the way it smelled. I just didn’t like the way it made me look…even if that look was younger.
I wrote this post today, partially because I loved Susan Alcantara’s story (that she wrote in response to a post a few weeks ago) so much. I know that when I feel comfortable with myself, I am more comfortable for others to be with….easy and comfortable to be around sounds very good to me.
I LIKE YOU JUST REGULAR by Susan Alcantara
“I remember years ago when my boys were young, having to get all dressed up, make-up, the works, for Symphony nights. My husband was the conductor, so the boys knew the drill – Dad in tails, and Mom in fancy dresses, and of course, a babysitter, boo! One morning, emerging from the bedroom in my bathrobe and hair sticking up all over the place, a make-up free face, my little son who was four at the time, crawled into my lap and said, “Mama, you looked really pretty last night, but I like you just regular!”