Gray Expectations

Perhaps there is something Dickensian about aging. There are no illusions. About six weeks ago I had an epiphany. I was no longer going to color my hair. Considering that I have been blonde since age 38 and it has been some years — more than I am willing to state publicly — since I have seen the actual real color of my hair, this was going to be an adventure in self-discovery.  The operative word for me here is REAL.  I decided to become REAL.  I also came to the conclusion, rightly or not, that the thinning of my hair at the top of my forehead was the cause of chemical dyes.  This was something I could believe in, true or false.  I had done enough research on the health risks of breathing chemical dyes to convince myself that I was playing roulette with the BIG C if I continued to douse my scalp with every six week treatments of L’Oreal Lightest Natural Blonde.  I paid attention to who dyed their hair and who didn’t, who’s roots were beyond their time, who were spending hundreds of dollars in the salons of my town to streak and paint strands and tendrils of keratin filaments.

One haircut later and I’d say I’m about half-and-half.  I now sport this kinda dirty blonde sexy look that is more than a bit out of character for someone my age. (I try to pretend I’m not a dowager but I could easily be a grandmother several times over.  Something tugs at my ambivalence — yearning for my progeny to deliver and wanting to relive The Last Waltz.)  Underneath the two inches of blonde there is an equal amount of an unidentified color that I can’t put my finger on.  It’s still too soon to tell.  It is questionable as to whether I will like it or not — although I stay open to the possibilities.  Do I detect a hint of stunning silver or dingy drab brown?  It fascinates me.

This is transition time.  The presidential candidates have assembled their teams to take over the White House and the reigns of government.  The American south is turning light blue.  My neighbors are planting winter vegetable gardens to cut down on trips to the supermarket.  I’m putting little dribs and drabs of cash into my savings account since my retirement fund has tanked. And, think of how much I’ll save as we enter this economic crisis by refusing to continue to dye my hair.

There is a feeling of empowerment as I watch my hair grow.  Soon I will be converted. The blonde brassy sassy me will be toned down by the shades of gray underneath.  There is nothing left that I have to prove to the world.  I do not have to pretend I am younger than I am.  I have reached my career trajectory — perhaps not as high or as far as I would have liked, but I am satisfied.  I now mentor the young and ambitious ones and support them in their professional and personal goals.  So, my hair can now be a reflection of this place in my life where I can say, here I am, I have earned it, and I’m not afraid to let you see me for who I really am.  My expectations have been fulfilled.