To Dye Or Not To Dye

My first silver hair appeared when I was 29. I was at my desk one morning when a co-worker walked over and snatched the strand from my temple. I was stunned. It was only one lonely lock, a solitary warrior struggling to gain a foothold among the brown. I chastised Nelly for pulling it out. It wasn’t her gray hair so it wasn’t her business. In the waning days of my 20s, I failed to realize people often stick their long fingers as well as their noses into the business of others.

Since then my brown hair has just about disappeared. Like many women, when I saw it slipping away I reached for a bottle of Clairol. For 25 years I doused my head with various shades of brown until my hair was multi-colored. But hair dye, like many other artificial products, can give unexpected results. Although I kept as close to my natural shade as possible, the dye had a mind of its own. In the dim light of the trailer, my hair looked fine, but the color changed when exposed to sunlight. 

One sunny afternoon my daughter commented on the pretty streaks of purple mingled with the gray. She said purple was more attractive than blue, and I should flaunt whatever color the dye turned my hair because I still had some. I left her apartment feeling rather satisfied with my appearance. 

That feeling of satisfaction lasted until I walked into Goodwill a month later and ran into a kid about 12 years old. He stared at me for a few minutes then said, “Hey lady, you’re in style with that cool purple hair.” Although he gave me a big grin and a thumbs up, I knew it was time to throw out the Nice ’n Easy and surrender. My battle with gray was over, and the victor was all too clear.

It’s been seven years since my last dye job. A reunion marking the 50^th anniversary of my high school graduation is almost here, and I’m getting a little apprehensive. Should I rub Lady Clairol into my scalp and fake my hair color? Should I pretend I’m one of the lucky gals blessed with the anti-gray gene? Should I borrow Flash’s brown wig? I have six weeks to ponder my dilemma. Maybe the reunion will be cancelled and I won’t have to worry. I can go about my business, content with my colorless crown.

It takes bravery to face the Brimley class of 1965, but I have no more intention of coloring my hair than I have of wearing four inch stilettos and a mini skirt. Bring on the reunion. I’m ready and waiting, gray hair and all.