None of the women in my family have gone gray.
Not on my dad's side. Not on my mom's side. My Aunt Ruby, who's in her 90s now, still has flaming red hair (appropriately enough). And the last words my grandmother ever spoke in this world were "Pat, I need a tint tomorrow."
TRQ, a frustrated hair artist, started coloring my hair when I was eleven. I KNOW. She just put some blond streaks in there while we watched TV. Stuff like that. Because it was fun. And as I got older I started messing with my hair color, too. Sometimes I was a brunette. Sometimes I was all Nordic looking. Sometimes I did henna. Once I had hair that turned purple and when a photographer at Olan Mills complimented me on the color, I confessed it wasn't natural.
"Please," he said. "No one has hair the color of eggplant in real life."
Anyway. It was just an unspoken rule that you don't go gray. Gray is for women who've given up.
Which I kinda did this past year. I didn't mean to, but somehow I just kept putting off appointments--partly because of the cost and partly because I didn't want to sit still while Vikki put tin foil in my hair so that the FBI and CIA will finally stop MESSING WITH MY BRAIN.
And then one day I looked in the mirror and I saw that I was graying and I kinda liked it. And oddly so did Ken Cannon and the other males here. And so . . . I'm experimenting. And TRQ needs therapy over the issue, although she's trying hard to adapt to the idea. I can hear her thoughts, though. She's thinking Next thing you know she'll have a braid to her waist and wear sad little Birkenstock sandals, and she'll be throwing unattractive earthy little pots and giving them to us all for Christmas.
Anyway. If you made it to the end of this post, do you think this is a subject for a Trib column? Or is it way too slight? Because you know how I am week after week. Deep.
Sound off. Be honest.