The point of this micro post is: I’m going to let my hair return to its roots. Yes. I know. This isn’t the first time I’ve let my hair return its roots, only to run howling back to Jeanette, my hairdresser these thirty years, begging for highlights. As it turned out, my roots weren’t what they used to be and eight years later, if my badger eyebrows are any indication, they will be even less so. The arc of my life: brunette, ash blonde, winter slush. It’s enough to give a girl the pip.
I do not make this decision lightly. I know my beleaguered vanity’s in for one Hell of a bumpy ride. But, if not now, I asked myself, when? When I’m seventy? When I’m eighty? Do I want to be one of those old biddies who look like Donald Trump’s hairpiece blew off and landed on their head?
One seventy five year old woman of my acquaintance has her “blonde” hair professionally set every day and, to preserve its configuration, sleeps on blocks like a geisha. She is perfectly coifed. And what does it look like? Like a witch in a wig.
And Pamela Wallin? Pamela, please! You’ve been wearing that same hairstyle for thirty years! You’re old! We’re not fooled.
I’m at that time of life when I must start letting go. After all, I haven’t seen my eyelids for years. Ditto waist. Nix to contact lenses. As for high heels, I’d sooner have my feet gnawed off by a hyena. And now my hair. Every old lady hair day is a bad hair day.
On the positive side, I’m going to be a grandmother very soon and at least my grand kids will have a grandma that looks like a grandma and not a Gold Digger of 1933 . . . by which, I mean an actual Gold Digger of 1933.
Or maybe I could go silver.