“Let’s see my choices,” I said to my favorite hairdresser, settling into the salon chair and waiting for her to hand me a color chart. “Foxy gray, almost silver, would be perfect.”
She scrunched her nose while running her fingers through my chin-length hair, analyzing each overly processed strand. “You can’t do gray,” she snorted. “How about a few lowlights to offset the highlights?”
“Gray,” I insisted.
“You don’t understand. There isn’t a gray product on the market.”
“No one wants gray hair.”
“Besides, you’d be a really ugly gray. Trust me, you wouldn’t like it.”
I left the salon with the highs and lows she’d recommended, but I couldn’t stop thinking about going gray.
“Forget it,” my mother-in-law advised when I shared my idea. “I tried it. People treated me differently and I don’t mean that in a good way. Keep what you have.”
My friends at Curves had the same reaction. Scrunched noses and frowns to show distaste, a solid vote across each platform to keep what I had.
“You’re beautiful the way you are,” said my graying husband. “You look so young. Why ruin it? To tell you the truth, I’m thinking about dying my hair, getting rid of the gray.”
Guess what I did with all this well-meant advice? I chucked every scrap of it, right into my mental garbage can. For six months now I’ve been letting my hair go natural. And believe me, it looks like hell. Three inches of drab, salt-and-pepper, followed by six inches of over processed blonde. Yuck. The surprising thing is that my husband hasn’t even noticed. Once I’m completely gray, I bet you a buck he still won’t notice. My friends haven’t commented, leaving me wondering if they are as oblivious as my youth-chasing hubby.
Maybe I should whack it all off, use a little gel, give it some spikes, but then they’d notice for sure. I’m better off taking it slow.
Wasn’t I thrilled to find out that Anne Kreamer’s new book Going Gray came out this month to many rave reviews, including a feature piece in USA Today. Way to go Anne.
I have the hot little book in my hand and I’m going to start it the minute I finish writing this blog. I know she’ll have wonderful ideas for wearing flattering colors with my gray and for fending off friends and family who think I’m nuts. I have to say, though, that she looks like a zillion bucks, unlike me. I look like I can’t afford hair care.
But I’ve chosen the path and I’m sticking to it no matter where it leads. I’m not sure why this is important to me, although I’m an aging flower child. In the 70s I burned my bra. Is this my newest social statement? And, for once, am I on the cutting edge of a new trend?
What do you think? Care to join me?