Since rediscovering my natural hair color in the past year (it’s apparently brown, in case you were as curious as I was), I have begun to notice some ahem, highlights.
No, I’m not talking about the red that sometimes makes an appearance after I’ve been out in the sun. I’m talking about the shades of grey that have taken residence in my nest of curls.
In all honesty, I’m actually okay with this latest change in my appearance. I earned each strand fair and square (several are named after former students), and I see it as a rite of passage of sorts, wearing them like a badge of honor (or battle scars). I admittedly also don’t mind looking a tad bit older. While looking young is not necessarily a bad thing, it sometimes has its disadvantages, especially in the professional world.
So the color (or lack thereof)
I can welcome with semi-open arms. What I can’t
handle is the changing texture of said greys. As previously mentioned, I have a nest of curls that sit atop my head. The greys are like the broken springs of a mattress, sticking straight up like corkscrews. This is not okay. Did you hear me greys? Not. Okay. Key word being NOT.
Now understand, I am a master at taming unruly kinks. I’ve been doing it all my life (when I wasn’t burning my hair with chemical straighteners). But there is no cream, spray, or serum powerful enough to tame these grey jerks. And so they stand at attention all over my head, like the screaming banshee.
I might have to take Hubby up on his “gracious” offer to pluck them out for me (if he’d let me pluck his eyebrows in return, we’d totally have a deal), because I’m not exactly sure what this look says, but it’s definitely not “older and wiser.”
*I stand by the British spelling of “gray.” It’s my one Anglophilic hangup.
crayons photo by Eliza Cate, image source; screaming banshee image source