I have gray hair.
I just noticed it tonight. I guess it’s been a while since I coloured my hair and my roots are bad. Really bad. They’re gray. Well, more gray than they ever have been before.
Before, I had to admit to a hair or two, never more than that. When I bought my hair colour, I could just ignore the part on the box that promised to “cover 100% of your gray!”. That little bit didn’t apply to me… I was just buying it to make my mouse-brown hair more interesting. Now, I need to take this into consideration.
I guess now is the time to decide if I’ll go gray gracefully and wear my salt-and-pepper proudly, and tell people I earned every one (I did), or if I’ll fight it tooth and nail, and cover the gray every six weeks until I die (because it’s either one or the other – once you go black, they say, you’ll never go back). Of course, I then run the very significant risk of ending up looking like the sixty-something witch in our office who has a jet black, back-combed rat’s nest on top of her head. Like that’s natural-looking. Or like Dr. Smarmy, with his Grecian Formula helmet and his Miata, desperately holding onto the last vestiges of his youth so people will continue to tell him how Important and Impressive he is (because he couldn’t possibly do any good if he were old). Tragic and comedic examples notwithstanding, my sarcastic tone should give you an idea of how I’m leaning; that is to say, I’m leaning towards the fight. Although I let my belly button piercing grow over, I’m not ready to completely surrender to adulthood (although my mini-van and millionaire’s family say otherwise).
Trevor blames the gray on work (he has a point… I never had a single gray hair before I started working as a nurse). I blame the kids. He almost conceded, when he heard me tell Jack for the twentieth time (I exaggerate only minimally) to get his jacket on to go to swimming lessons tonight, while Jack was busy making faces in the mirror. And finding a penny on the floor (“I’m rich!”). And adjusting himself. And wiggling his loose tooth. And going back twice for his towel. And asking what would happen if every single number had “seven” in it.
Either way, I am going gray. Sigh. I’m not ready to give in yet, and actually become gray. And I plan to continue to ignore the part about gray on the hair dye and choose my shade for the aesthetics, not for its brand’s more utilitarian features.
I’m thinking royal blue this time. Possibly blond. I hear they have more fun, and anyway, blond blends in better with gray, so maybe I’ll need to do the roots less often. Hmmmm… maybe blue and blond. Oooh, the possibilities are endless, now that I’m not committed to “natural”. And I use the term with as much disdain as I can muster.