This morning my daughter found a receipt for $197 from the salon where I got my hair cut, colored in two shades, blown dry, and two hours of therapy from the adorable Charlotte (who also got a forty dollar tip). I was embarressed. Two visits to the salon could buy me a major appliance, a mini vacation, four weeks of groceries or a reallly nice dinner out for the family. Instead I spent it on my head, both inside and out.
I want to set my grey hair free. I get the itch every year or so and then it turns into a drive and then I'm ready to do it and then someone says to me: it's necessary for your job. You want to go grey when you're working on your organic farm (how did she know about that secret dream) fine, but for now, dye your hair!
I should mention that the woman who said that to me sports a very odd color of red.
I find grey hair beautiful. It's silver, it's white, it's shimmery sometimes. Yesterday I saw a woman walking down Walnut Street and she was obviously growing her hair out: she had a pageboy that was white above her ears and the rest was brown. I wanted to say, you go girl!
If I admire that bravery so much in others why can't I be brave too?
Because then the gig will be up. No longer will people say, really, you're past 40? I thought you were in your early 30's. (Yes, I still believe this bullshit.) If I'm grey will it be that I have given up, gotten out of the race, surrendered to the thunder of the high heeled boots I can hear behind me?
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This one, over here. Because she has something to tell you.
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