I’m in the middle of an experiment.
I’ve been coloring my hair for over twenty years. Where it once was every eight weeks, then six, down to four…now it’s three, and it’s driving me, not to mention my wallet, crazy.
I’m a slave to my Persian hair colorist who slaps it on my hair any way but gently as I sit under a hot light baking like a ham.
He then, Sable Brown Number 3 dripping down the sides of my face, knocks my already addled head around in a sink that may as well have been imported from Pompeii.
We mustn’t forget the matter of my ears. I tell him, Chagall, please, don’t get dye in my ears…they’re in enough trouble as it is. I shove in 3-ply earplugs along with two fingers, but he still manages to squirt them with black, sudsy water.
I wear my hair short, the reason I’ve never gotten highlights since they’d be cut off every three weeks. I’ve been told, at my age, I should lighten up…in more ways than one…since a lighter shade of color would brighten my, middle-aged, sallow face.
Thanks for sharing, and now shut the fuck up.
I’m a creature of habit. With the exception of things I can’t change like crows feet, unforeseen wattles and a surprise panty line, I do my best to keep things the same.
I’m a brunette, and like my Italian grandmother at 86 on her deathbed said,”Can you call the beauty parlor…see if Loraine can come give me a little touch-up?”
But then had an epiphany.
My hair isn’t all that gray…it’s more dry, the texture of hay when I need color, from years of using dye.
What if I keep cutting off that part till I have a fresh head of hair. Maybe it will actually look and feel okay.
For me to be going on my 8th week without a dye job is no less than a miracle.
Of course there are hats and headbands to help me along the way…but all in all, if you ignore the fact my head is a tad flat, I’m more or less pulling it off.
Chagall, who you can imagine isn’t too happy about this losing money and all, actually went so far as to say, he’s thinking of buying a new sink…one that doesn’t threaten to decapitate you.
I’m still determined to see this through, and who knows, maybe I’ll never have to dye again…well…just once more, in my bed without a Lorraine aiming a squeeze bottle at my head like an overpriced grenade.