I'm Gonna Wash that Grey Right Outta my Hair

I am such a hypocrite. I have said (to anyone who will listen) that my hair doesn't define me; I am as young as I feel; I want to be authentic; it's a beautiful silver and I adore it; I'm off the bottle. Well, all that has changed.

I was looking at myself in the bathroom mirror at work (mistake #1 -- florescent lights, yuck!) thinking my hair needed help. Maybe a good cut -- something to give it a bit more style. And then I ran my fingers through my hair to fluff it a bit (mistake #2). I caught sight of the big patch of white lurking just beneath the surface. Oh well I thought, I have chosen to accept myself for who I really am -- bumps, lumps, wrinkles and grey hairs. There is nothing wrong with aging.

Back at my desk I called my stylist Amy and made an appointment for a cut.

To me, getting my hair cut is like buying a bra. It's a necessary evil because it keeps me looking perky. (Does anyone look good in those florescent-lit, funhouse mirrored change rooms? Where you are exposed and vulnerable and where the sales lady sees nothing wrong with barging in with "I think maybe these will fit" bras while you are trying to tuck yourself into one of the 50 other bras she brought you -- sorry I digress.) I enjoy the scalp massage and shampoo but I don't like sitting in a swivel chair that can be pumped up and down, wearing a huge bib while my hair -- all wet and stringy -- sticks to my head, making me look like something newborn (and not the cute kind of newborn). And guaranteed, the most gorgeous man I've ever seen is sitting in the chair beside me trying hard not to stare (and not in a good way). All this aside, the really annoying part is paying $100 for a 45 minute cut and style which grows out in 8 weeks and I have to repeat the entire experience all over again. It's the whole maintenance thing that just wears me down. Which maybe is the real reason I decided to embrace my grey.

But walking home I got to thinking about a call I received the night before. One of the many loyalty cards I have is for Shoppers Drug Mart. Each time I buy something I get points which I can redeem for stuff I probably don't need. Like all good loyalty cards I had to fill out an application and all my info was entered into their system. Including my birth date. The caller was a pleasant sounding woman named Ruth. She was calling to inform me that Tuesday was Seniors Day at Shoppers Drug Mart and that my loyalty card entitled me to 20% off everything in the store. I was listening to her, thinking "What the hell?" but the little, stupid part of my brain was also thinking "Maybe I get a discount along with the seniors. Wow, this card is great." But I had to be sure. So I asked her to repeat the bit about Seniors Day. She said (much slower this time because she must have thought I either had a hearing or memory problem) that because I was a senior I was entitled to a discount. I said "But I'm NOT a senior!" She apologized, saying they must have incorrectly entered my birth date in the system and that she would have me deleted immediately (I'm a little concerned about this; I'd rather be a senior than to cease to exist altogether). I asked if she could delete me after Seniors Day as I did have a few things I needed to buy. We laughed about it. And I didn't give it another thought. Or so I believed.

As soon as I got home I called the hair salon and changed my appointment.


Today was Hair Day. I was in the chair for almost 2 hours but it was worth it (and I also got a recommendation from Amy for a great bra store called Change). I love the new look. It is definitely perky and it's a beautiful shade of chestnut with a hint of shiraz. I guess I should have realized I couldn't stay off the bottle for long. It's a habit that's hard to break -- besides I'm too young to have grey hair and be that authentic.