I shall wear purple, and (proudly) my natural hair
WHEN I was first asked to write the ‘‘Fence Lines’’ column in 2014, I asked ‘‘what do you want me to write about?’’
Their answer was ‘‘anything you like’’. Goodness gracious, I thought, that's a broad remit — but mostly I have kept with food and agri, dabbling in sport, with the occasional more personal column.
Today, I have decided to share some deep philosophical thoughts. After writing about wool woes in my last column, I am keeping with the fibre theme and will share my journey on banishing the hair dye and going grey.
I plucked the first grey hair from my head in 7thform calculus. Naturally, I was outraged and caused a kerfuffle in class. Poor Mr Gemmell; calculus could not compete with such scandal.
Hair dyeing was not so common in those days and I remained ‘‘natural’’ until my mid20s, when I moved to Australia and, without the shackles of disapproving looks from my parents, I began to experiment. My parents were right, of course; when I look back at photos of myself with red stripes (foils were all the rage then), I cringe; what a waste of my youthful natural hair.
And so it began: the many years of hair colour changes — ‘‘summer is coming, let's go a little blonder’’ —
‘‘I'm starting to look a little brassy, chocolate shades this month please’’.
Slowly the proportion of grey hair grew and I would ask my hairdresser ‘‘how grey am I?’’ Something that is surprisingly hard to tell when trying to pull back the regrowth and examine the front and back of your head simultaneously.
A couple of years ago, I decided to semisurrender — no more blanket dyes, ‘‘let's streak this head of mine’’.
Back to the stripes (foils) — Helen is a lot cleverer than her Australian counterparts and didn't let me near the reds. These were working reasonably well, although what they don't tell you about going grey is that the process is not even.
In fact, my head of hair is skunklike in its ability to grow its own stripes. On the right of my fringe, I have a fabulous silver stripe — do we fight it or work with it? The decision was taken out of my hands when my son (bless him) told me that by trying to fight it, ‘‘it looks like you just missed a bit’’.
Next step was to stop the dye addiction completely.
I have had a couple of minor relapses but now I can proudly say the stripes are all my own — foxy as they are!
Occasionally my hair colour comes up in conversation. Women are very polite, my brothers less so.
When I saw them last year and mentioned that I had stopped dyeing my hair, they roared with sarcastic laughter. ‘‘Nooooo, we hadn't noticed’’, more laughter, ‘‘sister you are greyer than us both — how old are you, 100?’’ One can always count on family.
I have asked my husband what he thinks. He tells me he ‘‘doesn't notice’’. I haven't decided if this is because he is: A. colour blind; B. being polite; or C. doesn't actually look at me.
To be fair, he can't really win with a question like that. He has to live with me, unlike my brothers, who live on the other side of the world.
I have become comfortable with being a skunk/silver fox. It saves on time and money and it was quite a blessing during lockdown when lots of women were worried about regrowth. I get a shock when I see myself in photos, but the grey rewards my inner feminist .
If blokes can look distinguished as they get older, so can I — stuff society.
In fact, I was at the Farmers Market in the weekend and was speaking to some women who were not ageing quietly either — they were wearing outrageous red and purple hats. Apparently they are part of ‘‘The Red Hat Society’’, women who refuse to fade. There are 600,000 chapters worldwide — who knew?
Love it, love it, love it. The Red Hat Society was inspired by a poem Warning, by Jenny Joseph, which has become my new mantra (make sure you check it out).
‘‘When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves.’’