I wanted to do it 2 years ago, but my hair stylist convinced me I had to be psychologically ready.
She directed me to an article in O Magazine about the process. And after reading it, I realized Wendy was right: I needed to get used to the idea.
But tonight, when she was just about to mix the color, I stood up in my goofy vinyl cape, walked over to her, and said, "Wendy, just what would we do if I decided to let the white come in."
Some highlights and some lowlights, she explained.
I considered the alternative. In my mind's eye, I pictured that funky row of white, about half an inch high, that so starkly contrasts with the fake brown "natural" color I see when it's time to get my "roots done."
And I knew I couldn't stomach it. Not any more. I'd finally had enough.
Besides incurring the crazy cost of hiding the white beneath a wash of my old natural color, then adding dramatic swaths of "blonde," the act of coloring my hair suddenly felt very very silly.
Who did I think I was kidding?
The urge to let the authentic me* emerge could not be restrained.
Maybe it's because I like snow so much. The cool, sparkly, mesmerizing whiteness of it. Or maybe it's because using "hair mascara" (yep, you really can buy it!) to tide me over till I could get my roots done just seems ridiculous. I'm not proud of being so vain about my hair for so many years. But for whatever reason, something shifted in my psyche tonight. And I like it.
So I am most grateful to you bloggers who have encouraged me in the past to go for it.
Letting my patch of white emerge feels downright liberating. It's like the crown chakra has opened up and something's aglow atop my noggin. It's way cooler than I imagined.
Mr. B restrained his reaction. I haven't a clue what he thinks. But that's par for course. When I do something "dramatic" with my hair, he usually doesn't weigh in with an opinion till a few weeks have passed. I think he's wise. I stopped talking to him for a week once when he tried to make light of my efforts to zip up a pair of pants I'd outgrown. I'm sure wise men have learned to broach the subject of their loved one's sensitive appearance issues gingerly.
And, besides, he's agreed to me getting an Alaskan Husky puppy, which pretty much buys him a ticket to paradise as far as I'm concerned.
Speaking of puppies, here are a couple shots of Ginsberg, who is just a tad over 3 weeks old now. Shannon Miller, author of The Daily Dog, a fine writer/blogger/photographer/musher who midwifed the delivery of 8 precious pups, took these shots, and she tells me Ginsberg is still a mama's boy. Ah, music to my ears.
Snuggling with Sophie, Shannon's daughter, who is also a musher
And check out those baby blues!
And cuddling with one of his littermates**
* I've had a blast coloring my hair of the years, and each rendition was very much me. But the me right now needs to let the white come in!
** Shannon is still looking for homes for 3 of these beautiful pups. To help her entice any potential takers, allow me to present the following videos that Shannon produced. Enjoy!
If I had one, I swear I would do all the housebreaking, run with it, train it to pull a sled, love it to pieces, move to the country so we could play on snowy trails, add a few other Alaskan Husky buddies, and be very very happy.
To find the universal elements enough; To find the air and the water exhilarating; To be refreshed by a morning walk or an evening saunter; To be thrilled by the stars at night; To be elated over a bird's nest or a wildflower in spring-- these are the some of the rewards of the simple life
~ John Burroughs
Heading up north for a bit of simplicity. Blessings . . .