Gray and proud. Or was I?
Weak knees.
Feeling as unsure of myself as if I stared down the barrel of pulling off a twelve-person dinner party.
What was up with me?
Last week I threw out the question on my Facebook page: I should dye my gray?
That status update received more hits all the batters at Cooperstown combined.
Gray or no?
Old or no?
If you have gray hair does that make you old?
I always believed age was in the mind.
Funny, how tender knees, not being able to remove the back of my Vivelle-Dot without readers and taunting children, “Come on Gramps” can sway the stanchest of I’m-gray-and-proud.
Just so happens, I had a scheduled hair appointment yesterday.
Here I was before.
After than glamor shot, I headed down to Petals at 12:59 arriving three minutes late for my 1 p.m. appointment.
Ever doubt a gray-hair Facebook status update going viral, don’t.
From the moment I walked in, all eyes were on my hair and every mouth asked, “So. You going to color your hair?”
Actually I wasn’t.
I had made up my mind to go into my long-standing appointment and have my regular cut and regular dab of highlights.
Suddenly, that didn’t seem like an option.
I trust Beth who has cut my hair since I was 37 and she was two.
To Beth it was a done deal. To Katie, my mini-me and also Petals employee it was done. To the other Katie, who cuts hair it was done. And Pam, who dyed my daughter’s hair blue, just looked at me with her lovely Pam every-woe-in-life-is-fixed-by-a-talented-hair-professional smile.
Dear Katie took this photo after I slumped into the chair.
(My utter goofiness in this picture hides my terrified insides.)
Reclined with my head into the sink, I pondered life’s complexities. I could say NO.
Why am I letting myself being talked into covering up what is natural and normal and makes Emmylou Harris gorgeous.
Okay. Her face doesn’t hurt either.
THAT’S WHEN IT HIT ME.
I was scared.
Scared to do something that couldn’t be changed. Scared to admit that I wasn’t okay with what age was doing to my body. Scared to face I might not be as gray-hair-liberated as I hoped.
Anyway you cut the bangs, I was afraid.
With that revelation, my decision became very easy.
It there is one thing (and maybe only one thing) I hate worse than looking at my aging self —
It is letting FEAR control my decisions.
Another Mid-life First World Problem solved. Ta da.
Beth put a semi-permanent dye on.
Letting me wade into the color pool up to my trembling knee caps rather do a cannonball.
But I got in.
And swam.
Once used to the temperature, I liked it.
So for today, this is me.
What do you think?
Completely and unabashedly fishing for compliments. Err comments.
