I did it.
Or, rather, Gigi did it.
Because really, she was as excited as me.
We've been in this client/ hairdresser tango for a couple years, as only those who have a deep relationship with the person who cuts their hair can know. Our back-and-forth was on the subject of Going Gray. We have had differing opinions. She voted for keeping color with the hard-to-resist argument that "you're too young to go gray." As a woman who is going gray and who strives for seeing things clearly, I felt obligated to Be Me aka Gray. Both of us had some good points to support our views.
Back when I turned 49, and began acquiring a few silver hairs, I gave myself the Clariol Curse. Hair dye is like plastic surgery: once employed, the natural course of things alters. Things like self-image, projection, reflection, expectation. You can skip past Inevitable and go straight to Avoidance.
But avoidance is exhausting. I've never been a good liar because its a lot of work to keep alternate reality facts straight. Hair color is like keeping up a charade. Too much work, my brain needs a clear path to too many other tricky life requirements to share the cargo space with non-essentials. Getting Older lends itself to dumping the non-essentials.
I went to my appointed round with Gigi yesterday at 4:20 p.m. for a trim. By 5:12 p.m., I was my True Color.
Gigi pre-empted my final moment of realization by a few months. I just wanted a quarter inch off to lose the split ends and nudge those cursed fomerly-colored horizontal stripes to oblivion. She knows how long I've been working to Be Me, she's argued against it, she's helped cover IT, and she's heard my pros and cons for a few years. Finally, she cheered me on, saying a few cuts back that "theres no going back now." After all the waffling and the slow growing-out time, she wanted to see WHAT the hair would look like as much as I did. I could've dipped my toes into the water for a few more months with just a trim. But she shoved me in the deep end. She clipped past the Brassy Dyed Leftovers, straight to the heart of the matter. Which meant that my hair is shorter than I wanted it. But it's a wrap.
Right away, it felt good. Short. But good. It was a Let-Go moment. And a Hello moment. I like it very much. I think that people react differently to me, in the last 24 hours. Maybe I have acheived Eccentric Status, because being gray and acting like I usually do--abrupt--is more acceptable under gray hair than it was under dyed. Its a whole new world, which I am happy to explore.
Gigi likes it too.
Or, rather, Gigi did it.
Because really, she was as excited as me.
We've been in this client/ hairdresser tango for a couple years, as only those who have a deep relationship with the person who cuts their hair can know. Our back-and-forth was on the subject of Going Gray. We have had differing opinions. She voted for keeping color with the hard-to-resist argument that "you're too young to go gray." As a woman who is going gray and who strives for seeing things clearly, I felt obligated to Be Me aka Gray. Both of us had some good points to support our views.
Back when I turned 49, and began acquiring a few silver hairs, I gave myself the Clariol Curse. Hair dye is like plastic surgery: once employed, the natural course of things alters. Things like self-image, projection, reflection, expectation. You can skip past Inevitable and go straight to Avoidance.
But avoidance is exhausting. I've never been a good liar because its a lot of work to keep alternate reality facts straight. Hair color is like keeping up a charade. Too much work, my brain needs a clear path to too many other tricky life requirements to share the cargo space with non-essentials. Getting Older lends itself to dumping the non-essentials.
I went to my appointed round with Gigi yesterday at 4:20 p.m. for a trim. By 5:12 p.m., I was my True Color.
Gigi pre-empted my final moment of realization by a few months. I just wanted a quarter inch off to lose the split ends and nudge those cursed fomerly-colored horizontal stripes to oblivion. She knows how long I've been working to Be Me, she's argued against it, she's helped cover IT, and she's heard my pros and cons for a few years. Finally, she cheered me on, saying a few cuts back that "theres no going back now." After all the waffling and the slow growing-out time, she wanted to see WHAT the hair would look like as much as I did. I could've dipped my toes into the water for a few more months with just a trim. But she shoved me in the deep end. She clipped past the Brassy Dyed Leftovers, straight to the heart of the matter. Which meant that my hair is shorter than I wanted it. But it's a wrap.
Right away, it felt good. Short. But good. It was a Let-Go moment. And a Hello moment. I like it very much. I think that people react differently to me, in the last 24 hours. Maybe I have acheived Eccentric Status, because being gray and acting like I usually do--abrupt--is more acceptable under gray hair than it was under dyed. Its a whole new world, which I am happy to explore.
Gigi likes it too.
For true Eccentric status you'll need about 10 to 15 cats, or more.
ReplyDeleteRumor has it that Official Perons of Suspicion Criteria count is 4 cats. Check your clowder.
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