My New Style

On my birthday last year, I decided to stop coloring my hair.  I was 63.  Some people say that is too young but I had told my family I was going to do it on my 60^th birthday.  I had even planned to sell tickets, with the proceeds going to charity, to see someone cut it off really short to start the growing out process.  It never happened.  I chickened out.  I had asked a former hair stylist about growing it out and her response was, “You will have to wear a hat for a year.”  My current hair stylist, who is also a lifelong friend and my cousin’s wife, also advised against it.  She didn’t even color my hair.  I was a do-it-yourselfer.  “You won’t like it,” she said.  “Your hair is as fine as frog hair.  At least the color gives it some umph.”  So, I kept putting it off and putting the ash brown on.

My grown daughters hated my brassy, almost blond, ash brown hair.  When I was younger, my natural hair color was dark brown.  They could never get used to their mom with her weird hair color that could change from week to week depending on how close I was to a re-do.  I hated the constant upkeep but so does everyone who colors their hair.  My husband of forty plus years is a silver fox.  I have never told him how to do his hair so he never advised me on mine.  OK, maybe, once or twice I told him how he should have his hair cut but he never listened.  When I colored my hair, I would do it when he wasn’t home.  Just keeping up the mystic, I guess.

So, on my May birthday I looked in the mirror and thought how I needed to pull out the box of ash brown I had stocked away.  I flipped it over in my hands a couple of times and put it back in the closet.  Nope, I am done.  That’s it.  No more.  I am going to be free to be me.  Even if I have to wear a hat for a year.  Even if I have to cut it all off.  Even if my stupid straight, baby fine hair lays flat on my big head.  My oldest daughter was now 40 so it was time for me to stop pretending to be her sister.  I am the grandmother of a teenager for Pete’s sake.

I called my sister who is five years older than me to share my epiphany.  “Oh, I stopped about two months ago.  I am ahead of you.” she said in her best, big sister voice.  Fantastic!  I will have a buddy to join me on my journey!  My sister and I have this uncanny sister thing.  We lived hundreds of miles apart for many years but we managed to buy the same purse, get the same haircut and buy the same Christmas cards that we both addressed in metallic ink.  To know that we were going gray together made my decision all the more solid.  (I did, however, keep the box of ash brown in the closet, just in case.)

I started sharing my liberating news with my friends.  It was met with mixed reviews.  “Why would you want to do that?”  “I will go to the grave coloring my hair.”  “I like your hair the way it is.”  “Oh, I don’t know about that.”  I had to coerce people into being supportive.  My family, on the other hand, was very pleased with my decision.  Surprisingly, my husband was my biggest champion.  I guess my silver fox wanted his foxy lady to be silver as well.  Who knew?

The crazy, dark blond hair was good for one good thing.  The growing in gray hair didn’t look too bad next to it.  The hat was totally uncalled for.  That is until I was diagnosed with a basil cell carcinoma on my scalp in September which had to be cut out and covered with a large bandage.  My friend/hair stylist cut my shoulder length hair to chin length with layers to hasten the transformation but I never had to cut it super short as I feared.  My sister went that route and it was totally adorable on her. 

Our baby brother has been naturally gray for some time.  Near the end of my transformation my hair did start resembling my sister’s Yorkshire terrier – one third blond, one third dark brown and one third silver.  It was an odd look but by then I was emboldened by my new liberated do and wore it proudly.

My last haircut in December cut out all of the strange blond except for a few tips here and there.  All of a sudden, people started noticing my hair was different.  They asked me if I had it “done” that way.  Nope, just grew out of my head this way.  Where have you been for the last seven months?  I really like my “new” hair.  I guess God does know a little something about what looks good framing this less than perfect, almost 64-year old face.  My sister calls my super fine, gray hair “silver cotton candy.”  I’ll take that.