I've noticed a few things about my hair these days. Firstly, as I've gotten older it's suddenly gone wavy. Where did that come from? Don't get me wrong, I enjoy it. It's just weird-especially that little curl in the middle of my forehead, a la Superman style. My hairdresser said something about hormones changing my hair. Lovely...I can't wait for menopause now. I'll have an afro.
Then I find these long white hairs mixed in there. Not grey, not even roots, but entire strands of white. Freaks me out. They are like mutant hairs, all wirey and strange. At first I just ripped them out. Then I couldn't stand the fact that I had three different colors of hair-blonde streaks, the rest light brown, and the grey here and there. John, who is happily salt and pepper (and more salt then pepper these days) laughed. For years he's always been the grey one. I'll bet he couldn't wait for me to catch up with him.
The blonde streaks were already a mistake. An attempt a chic looking hair gone bad, and I should have stopped while I was ahead. But anyone who knows me well, knows enough that I can't seem to stop punishing myself. First it was, let's dye the rest of the hair to cover up the streaks. Oh, but I didn't even think that there was a difference in dyes. So I ended up with a nice root line...1/2 blonde hair, 1/2 light brown. Enter the grey and you have...um...nothing that's chic, anyway.
Whoever makes up these numbers on the boxes must be a co-conspirator with whoever decides the baby clothing sizes. Like a newborn wearing 6m clothes, the companies that all number their haircolors might as well do so in Chinese. My hair dresser told me I was a 7. Fine. Think I can find a box with a seven on it? No. Just jargon like "Lightly Toasted Almond", or "Champagne Blonde". After a brush with the Almond one that was far too dark, I finally found L'Oreal Natural Match. Glorious! A box with a seven on it! And even though I just noticed today that I again have a root line, it's close enough to my natural color that you hardly notice.
Oh well. At least I'm not like Samantha in Sex in the City, dying other places. And no, I won't be ripping them out either.