One month gray

On Saturday, I tell my hair dresser I want to go gray. She barely bats an eye and rattles off the best way to go about it. She tells me she saw another client through the process, only to have her go back to color when the last bit was growing out. I hope that’s not me, though it very much sounds like something I would do.

My grandmother used to visit her hair dresser every Friday morning. I think her hair dresser’s name was Jo and I think I played Mr. Mouth with her daughter once, though I could be mixing up memories. I’ll never forget the can of Coke and pack of peanut butter crackers I got when I tagged along to a hair appointment. There was nothing tedious about it to me. I sat on a dryer chair, shoving in dry, day-glo crackers, and watched the magical transformation unfold.

My grandmother always went in tense, barking at my grandad to quit driving so slow and did he see that red light he just ran. When she came out of a hair appointment, she was the Queen. She still barked orders at my grandad, but did so regally. Her perfectly coiffed ball of ash blond hair looked like cotton candy and made me hungry again.

In all honesty, I’m not sure what she had done at those appointments. I think it was a wash and set, which would mean she didn’t wash her hair all week? No wonder she was always on edge. (She’s been gone nearly two decades, so I can’t ask her.)

I’m a little nervous about seeing my still-living grandmother at Christmas. Last summer, we were standing in the morning sun when she said to me “You do have a lot of gray hair.” I thought we’d been talking about sandals but she’d been having an entirely separate conversation in her head. She then told me about the time she’d been sitting poolside with my brother, who is several years older than me, and accused him of wearing a white wig. She may have given his hair a gentle tug just to be sure.

My hair dresser inspects my roots and tells me I’m about 80% gray. If she’d said anything less than 75%, I admit I would have felt disappointed. She says the hair framing my face is nearly 100% white and I remember the time I got a 100% on a french test in 7th grade and I beam. She shares a theory that the hair on that part of our heads takes a direct beating from the sun over the years and that’s why it goes first. I watch her fill my head with aluminum foil wraps and think it’s all pretty crazy.

I go home with about two inches of exposed white root and a head full of expensive highlights. I don’t really understand how this is all going to work, so I make an appointment for 8 weeks away, just to be safe. I’m relieved I won’t have to do my roots anymore every 3 weeks at home. White would already be showing at the temples and part line after 2 weeks. My hair doesn’t want to be fucked with anymore. It’s been quite clear about that.

On Christmas, my grandmother will no doubt comment on my hair. It’s better when I can brace myself. I’m learning to be more gracious and brush off what she never intends as insult in the first place. She went to the school of Say What Everybody Else is Thinking. I’ll probably slip into defensive mode and explain I’m just trying it out, much like the conversation she forced out of me on the phone last week when she asked about church.

When I told her that I was taking the girls to church a couple of months ago, she started crying. She still surprises me. Part of me now wishes I hadn’t said anything because now I feel like we have to keep going. She asks me if I can send her literature about my religion, which is a mix of beliefs and a stretch from what she’s used to. I think how fun it might be to make up my own brochure in Word, arranging weird clip art (aka the original emojis) and funny phrases. Instead I tell her how a recent service went, which is similar to every other denomination I’ve been to. Hymns, saying things in unison, shaking hands with flu-infested neighbors, listening to the minister, staring at the floor and ceiling, chucking money in a basket, snacks.

My grandmother tells me she wants my brother to go to church, that he needs it. She wants my husband to go to church. She probably wants you to go to church if you don’t already. The thing I can’t quite tell her is that church isn’t everything I’d hoped it would be. It turns out that it’s just me showing up and feeling awkward and out of place. The hymns are lovely, but in truth I’d rather not stand and I’m still lip synching all of the high notes and at least half the low ones too. When service is over, I beeline out of there to find my kids because awkward small talk feels like gargling with battery acid. There are definite points during the service where I feel peaceful and connected and outside myself, which is a very good place to be, but as it turns out, I’m no better at embracing community at church than I am anywhere else.

How did I start talking about gray hair and wind up at church? It might be worth mentioning that while counting hats is pretty impossible at church these days, I did count quite a few white heads in the congregation. A surprising amount of women too. So maybe I’ve found my people afterall, at least for where I am right now, which is all any of us can hope for.

us gray gals gotta stick together (if only mine would come in that lovely)
us gray gals gotta stick together (if only mine would come in that lovely)
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Mule

I have another confession to make. I’m gray as a mule. You might not know from the highlighted, touched up version of myself I put out there or because you’re not super tall like my husband, who notices my roots coming in before I do. So much for feminine illusions of dewy youth. I’m tired of the whole process myself.

Every three weeks, I have to do something or my hairline spreads thick with white. I’m like Pepe Le Pew, or more like his bewildered love interest. Why me? I’m sure it has nothing to do with genetics and the fact that my dad was gray since the day we met and my brother is gracefully headed that way. Why are men so much braver in this way? My husband grayed at the temples and sideburns and he truly does look distinguished. Doesn’t it just make you sick?

Do you know I’ve dyed my hair since college? I got my first gray at 14. My mom noticed it while french braiding my hair and plucked it out at my insistence. This must have been my fatal mistake. All the slumbering grays heard the battle cry and rose up. I have a distinct recollection of being described by a drunkard at a bar as having “stringy gray hair”. I was 24. In my memory, he also has stringy, gray hair because my memory is awesome and always has my back.

It’s all coming to a head now. Not only do I feel like I’m constantly dyeing or getting ready to dye, but the texture is all wrong. My poor hair is dry and lifeless, rightly exhausted from pretending to be a fun blonde. The gray hair underneath is wiry and coarse. It brays when I liberally condition and apply product, a word hairdressers are quite fond of in its vague invocation of miracle.

This is my first glimpse into getting older. I’m fighting myself from the root down and I don’t want to do that. I write all of this just before going upstairs to mix another batch of magic potion that will allow me to fool the world for 3 weeks. Then I’ll go online to google articles and tips from others who were brave enough to stop dyeing and transition over. I’ll probably start a Pinterest board with too many pictures of Emmylou Harris and Heloise.

Next month I turn 41. If I start to transition now, I can take advantage of the Steve Martin effect and age minimally over the next 20 years. At my 40 year reunion, people will say “you never seem to age!” They won’t know that even though I was terrified to look old, I was more terrified at the thought of fighting it for the rest of my life.

I think this is an album cover? It's also my new battle cry.
I think this is an album cover? It also makes a nice battle cry.

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