When your crowning glory fades to gray
Today’s column is going to be a little different from the ones I’ve written since the beginning of COVID-19 and, lately, the horrific war in Ukraine. My words are going to be trivial to some, while it will hit home with others.
It’s about my hair. I know it’s such a mundane subject in today’s world, but this column is about being a grandmother, and, believe it or not, my hair plays a role.
I am a natural redhead, and, when you’re a redhead, it becomes part of your personality — part of who you are. In many instances, it can toughen you up as a person because you find yourself being teased or bullied, simply because you’re a redhead. Add my million freckles to the mix, and it’s guaranteed that thoughtless people will poke fun at you. Or you’ll find people who absolutely love red hair — like my husband — and they make up for the mean ones.
In my case, the bullies toughened me. I grew up in a home where I was told daily that I was beautiful. And I believed it. Still do. Nobody had the power then or now to take me down. I loved the color of my hair (a perfect match to my beloved father’s and now my granddaughter’s), and the freckles just came with the territory.
So giving it up has been seriously hard for me, but that’s what I’m doing. I’m letting the white take over.
About 15 years ago, the white hair started making appearances. My stylist, Daniel DeVries, is a genius with hair color. He started coloring my hair, matching the red perfectly. He’d do it about every eight weeks — until a few years ago when it morphed into about every three weeks. He even gave me the coloring formula so I could do it myself during quarantine, and I did it religiously even though nobody but my immediate family saw me. I was dead set on staying a redhead.
Until now.
I am over it.
I’m curious about what I’ll look like, for one thing. Will I have my father’s silver hair or my mother’s white? Will it immediately age me to look like an old lady?
The reality is, at 69, I am an old lady, though my grandchildren tell me I don’t act like it. The bottom line is I’m ready to trade the red for white. The process of having it colored so often has worn me down.
As the white grows out, Daniel is highlighting the red with a lighter color to make the transition less noticeable, and I’m finding that it makes the transition easier for me to accept.
Another factor in my decision to go white is how unimportant having red hair is at this time in my life. Like I said, I’m 69. Secondly, with all the horrors going on in the world with people still dying of COVID (and people still spreading COVID) and innocent Ukrainians being slaughtered by a madman, why do I care about having red hair?
I know there are many aging women who are going through the same dilemma I’ve been experiencing. It’s not an easy decision, and it’s one that can take years to make. Now that I’ve finally decided to go white, I’m actually excited about it and eagerly awaiting for the complete transition to take place.
Though my late father’s name was William, he was known by everyone as “Red.” He had a head full of thick, curly, bright red hair. When his hair turned white in his late 50s, people asked him how it felt to go from red to white. His answer will now be my answer as well: “The red is gone, but the spirit is there.”