‘Gray’ Matter

Give me a head with hair

Long, beautiful hair

Shining, gleaming

Streaming, flaxen, waxen

My hair was a constant source of friction between my mother and me; Like the musical Hair, I wanted to wear mine long. My mother insisted it be kept short.

I had blond hair with a streak of platinum in the front. My two younger sisters had red and brunette hair, respectively. Aside from the questions this raised about our lineage, we shared identical haircuts. We were dutifully marched to the department store (department stores still having salons on their premises in those days) for our Julie Andrews haircut, which was all the rage after The Sound of Music came out in theaters. I’m guessing it was a panacea for mothers who didn’t want to do anything more with their children’s hair than run a stiff-toothed comb through it once a day.

In the seventh grade I let my friend, an aspiring hair stylist, cut my hair in the angular bob style Vidal Sassoon was pioneering. After that adventure, my mother gave up and my assault on my hair began in earnest.

Like every other girl looking to sport that wholesome Cheryl Tiegs look, I spent my summer days at the beach pouring lemon juice in my hair. Lemons could be had for a dime a piece. Like citrusy rotisserie chickens, my friends and I turned on our towels as if on spits.

Later on, when I had babysitting money, I spent it on Sun-In spray-on hair lightener. I’d spritz the Sun-In on my hair only to be rewarded with a shade of orange usually reserved for Halloween Jack-O-Lanterns.

I moved up a step to boxed hair color; After all, I was worth it. My first time doing my own highlights from a box resulted in a Cruella de Vil look. I wore hats for weeks until the color faded.

The first time I let a professional color my hair, clumps of hair washed down the sink from the harsh chemicals. The color was more gray than golden, but I was thrilled.

In time, I found stylists who could work wonders with color: highlights, low-lights and shades of blond to compliment my changing tastes and lifestyle.

Years and years of appointments with colorists followed.

I always told myself I would stop coloring my hair when I retired. But would I, really?

Turns out, I would.

Having my own natural color has allowed me to embrace my life — a rich life of experience — full of children, grandchildren, retirement and hobbies, new and old.

I don’t look like Maye Musk or Helen Mirren. I’m more of a carefree, field mouse color. But I still have the platinum streak, only now it’s gray.

Best of all, I’m still me. And I’ll never color my hair again. Because it turns out it’s what’s in your head that matters more than what’s on top of it.