The Root of the Problem

There’s a box of L’Oreal Les Blondissimes dye – I mean, rich luminous conditioning colorant – sitting on the vanity beside my sink in the bathroom, left there to remind me that soon I’ll have to don the plastic gloves once more and soak my follicles in hexadimethrine chloride, ammonium thiolactate, and phenyl methyl pyrazolone until the grey gives way to golden locks. Unless…

Unless I decide to let the grey stay. I’ve been naturally grey for 17 years now. My hair turned from my natural dark brown to grey when my son was three and I was 31. As a single mum on a very limited budget, I found it absurd to spend money on coloring my hair when the money was so desperately needed for necessities. So I let it stay grey until…

Until one day when my son, then aged seven, and I were on the bus. An East Indian man started talking to us. He pronounced himself a good judge of human character, projected a mystical, exotic wisdom. He was enthralled with my son’s intelligence, remarking several times during our brief journey together on what an extraordinary boy he was. This guy’s a genius, I thought. Then, as the infinitely wise swami left the bus, he said, “It’s so nice that you’ve taken the time to spend the day with your grandson.” This guy’s an idiot, I thought.

I was 35, far too young to be viewed as a senior citizen. My anger at his thoughtless comment turned to embarrassment, which turned to me finding the money in the budget to become a fabulous redhead. My skin coloring – pale with freckles – allowed me to pass as a natural redhead, a select group consisting of a mere two percent of North Americans.

Ah, but vanity is the downfall of many a fair maiden! One day I was doing a medical improv – that’s when actors portray characters for medical students so that the budding doctors practice interacting with patients. I was not only posing as a redhead – unique enough – but now I was a redhead with TB and narcolepsy – how special is that?! I was in a room with another actress, 10 years my senior, a willowy former dancer with long, blonde hair. We were being briefed by the physician who was overseeing the improv session, herself a redhead. At one point, she asked the blonde her age, and upon hearing the news, turned to me and said, “Redheads never age very well, do they?”

I’ve been a blonde since then. And it truly has been more fun than being a fake redhead – for one thing, the grey roots don’t show as quickly. And when they do, I just use an extra glob of molding mud to mess up my tresses in a way that better hides the tell-tale roots. But these days, I find myself delaying the monthly ritual of opening that box as long as possible. Part of me wants to let my hair become the color it has wanted to be for the past 17 years, thereby making a statement that wrinkles and grey hair should be viewed as distinguished and sexy, just like they are on aging men. Then again, I could make a statement to the world that I’m worth the $7.00 to become an Extra Light Ash Blonde. Oh, what the hell…today, I’ll do it. Maybe in a few more decades, I’ll finally be willing to act my age.