Three years ago I did it. I’d had it, you see, with spending two or more hours at the hairdresser every third week. I’d had it with having rich dark hair for a few days only to see the silver lining (Doesn’t that sound better than grey roots?) reappear. I’d had it with having those chemicals sitting on my scalp and doing God knows what to my system—let alone my brain.
Then, one day, I happened to see a picture of Carmen Dell'Orifice. Anybody who doesn’t know who she is, you must, must Google her. She is the oldest working model and SHE IS GORGEOUS. One look at her mane of silver hair, and I was convinced. I wanted to look just like her. So I let my hair color grow out, until all I had left was beautiful silver hair. See picture above. You have to admit, the color was lovely.
For three years I wore it as proudly as I could, but I never quite got used to seeing myself in the mirror. Every time, I saw myself with my natural hair, I felt like an old lady. And then a couple of months ago, I happened to be walking through a department store and passed by the wig department. On a whim I went in and tried on a brunette wig. WELL! It was like instantly dropping fifteen years. Instant facelift. Even the saleslady was astonished. She scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “That’s the name of a great hairdresser,” she said. “Go get your hair colored right now.”
That happened about two months ago. I had my hair colored—I can’t say my natural hair color anymore—my birth color, and I’ve been loving seeing myself in the mirror since. The odd thing is that I feel younger too. So I’m back to seeing my hairdresser every three weeks. I suffer the roots in between, and I pray those chemicals don’t kill me before my time. But, hell, time enough for grey hair when I turn seventy five.
Until then, I’ll live young.
New picture coming soon.