When my hairdresser of more than thirty years announced her retirement earlier this year, my heart sank. Who would console my hair woes now? What I loved most about Lou, apart from her professionalism and great sense of humour (she once nicknamed my hair « the planet ») was her pragmatism and consistency. She listened to me, followed through and as a result, I always left the salon somewhat relieved. Not exactly happy but feeling okay.
Years ago, 1987 to be precise, I stumbled upon a hairdresser who convinced me that my complexion would suit copper highlights and that getting a perm would give my curly hair direction. She did the colour first, that was the first disaster, but I was too polite to run screaming. Two weeks later, I watched with great apprehension in the mirror as she rolled the most dreadful hair colour I have ever sported in my life, a henna expriment gone wrong, into the tiniest rollers she could find. In short, the perming solution fried any part of my hair that was coloured and caused my poor, traumatized locks to recoil back into my scalp. Direction, my middle finger. I looked like a Greek statue for a month but I got through it and vowed, never again.
There have been a few other hair mishaps, the most notable one being when my ponytail caught fire on my birthday candle and my ex-husband managed to snap a picture. I gave Lou a print of the picture and she kept it in her salon for years, bringing it out to show clients what happens when you don’t get regular trims. I was like an anti-poster girl.
The good news is that I found a great hairdresser to replace Lou, not that Lou is replaceable, but I couldn’t risk another fire, not with the number of candles on my birthday cake this year. His name is Zeus and though he is a lot younger than me, he has embraced his grey. And bonus, he has curly hair. The last time I had my roots coloured and highlights put in was April 20th of this year.
I will be the first to admit that this is a difficult process for me, that I do not do this gracefully, nor do I embrace my grey yet. In fact, I am doing my best to hide the demarcation line with head bands, at least until the cooler weather arrives and I can wear a hat. If you look at my google search history of late, you will find the following topics: 1. How long does it take to grow out grey hair? 2. Pixie cuts for large heads with a flat spot at the back. 3. Tips for making hair grown faster. 4. Will I regret my buzz cut?
So why do it? Partly because sitting in the salon once a month to hide my roots wasn’t bringing me any joy. In fact, it felt more like a ball and chain. I hated the first several days after dying my hair because the colour left an unnatural looking tinge to my hair part and hair line. That left me with about ten days of feeling okay until the silver roots started to show at my temples and center part. There is no hiding roots at 4’10 inches.
Honestly, I have no qualms about telling people my age and looking younger isn’t necessarily doing me any favours. In fact, I find people tend to have higher expectations of you when you look younger than your biological age. For example, my son was appalled that small, grey-haired ladies in their 60s were having to lift heavy boxes at his work place (hint: a Canadian store that sells tires). When I reminded him that I was small, sixty, and had to lift heavy people at my workplace, he drew a blank. And then there is my sweet mum who often asks me how school was today as if I still have my whole life ahead of me.
This is my great exercise in self-acceptance. It will not come easily but I will continue the journey. A little while ago, an acquaintance confided to me that she’d love to go grey but her partner would never accept it. As she spoke, I looked over at said partner, a man in his 70s, and noted that he was completely grey. People have had mixed reactions to my announcement that I am going grey. A male work colleague reflected on the fact that while he looks upon his father as old, his mother seems ageless because she dyes her hair. He told me the grey will age me, not in a mean way but as a matter of fact statement, and my response was, so? Why on earth would I want to look younger? Others have been encouraging, rooting me on. And many more admit they are not ready which is perfectly fine. There should be no judgement whether you do or don’t. Just be you, colour or not.
All I can say is it’s not a bad thing to sit with discomfort for a while, to reflect on how you want to present yourself to the world. As much as I love routine and hate change, I feel this transformation is a kind of pilgrimage, permission to stop and rest after a long voyage. I am tired and for once, I want the world to know it.
bogeyandruby 