I realized today, as I peered at myself in the bathroom mirror, deciding whether to eat breakfast first or shower first…that the roots of my hair were looking kind of gray and dark. Then I had my second realization: I’d become one of those women.
You know, one of those women who dyed their hair, only worse. I’d joined that club about two (OMG! I think it was two!) years ago when I gave in to public opinion and dyed my hair for the first time. How did I make it to my late forties without ever dying my hair, ever? Not even highlights.
Well, I had some bad encounters with some perms over the years…’nuf said.
When I finally decided to dye it, it was just to try to cover most of the gray (that truthfully, I really didn’t even see. It was mostly on top of my head, so I had to tip my head and look down to see any gray, which I rarely did). I didn’t want to change the color one iota. In fact, I didn’t want anyone to know I’d done it at all…can you say, “Subtle”? That was my goal.
The wonderful woman that agreed to take me on was very brave. I have to give Deb tons of credit (and Susan tons of thanks, for introducing us). She listened to me tell her how much I didn’t want to do what I was about to hire her to do. She patiently listened to me debating the choices (permanent? semi-permanent?) and to me imploring her over and over to make sure that it would match my normal color so that no one would notice it was dyed. She did this. She pulled it off.
Anyway, once I started dying it, I got into a routine. A routine that I didn’t think too much about over the past two years (maybe three?). . . until this morning. When I realized I’d become one of those women.
One of those women who didn’t know what color her hair actually is anymore.
I’m not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing.