During the pandemic, my social calendar screeched to a halt, which made postponing hair appointments very easy. Stories such as how actress Sarah Jessica Parker embraced her gray tresses or how pewter-haired supermodels walked the Valentino runway helped ease the slow creep of silver at my crown. Perhaps, I, too, could turn a new corner in my life. COVID presented the perfect opportunity to go natural because I could hide behind a mask as my chemically-enhanced locks grew out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had long rebelled against my birth color, a ho-hum brown somewhere between that of a mouse and a mushroom. Since my early twenties, I\u2019d see-sawed between professional blonde highlights and sable lowlights, and once gray crashed the party in my late 30s, I\u2019d been covering that, too. At age 53, three different colors now covered my head. To say nothing of my real shade, which lurked somewhere in the background. Over time, I\u2019d grown to resent the increasing hours spent in a salon chair and since I retired, I hoped to use my time in more worthy pursuits, such as gardening, writing poetry, and enjoying a new marriage with my husband, J.P.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The sensitive sculptor and I felt lucky to have found each other by a smoldering fire pit at a Halloween cookout. Both of our previous marriages had ended, and we soon fell in love over art and literature. J.P. didn\u2019t seem to care about things like my hair, nor my lagging right leg and the multiple sclerosis that caused it. We had been married four years, and with his support, I slowly pruned the vanities of my previous life: the fancy clothes and cosmetics I wore in an attempt to look like everyone else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The women in my life, however, did not jump on the au naturel bandwagon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGray looks good on you,\u201d said my best friend Kelly, raising an eyebrow. \u201cBut it\u2019s not for me.\u201d Divorced, she had just entered the dating scene and was enjoying the attentions of a much-younger man. Jill, another friend, pledged to join me in my journey, only to renege and go even blonder than before. My mother also opposed the change. \u201cIs it the money?\u201d she asked. \u201cI\u2019ll pay for it, honey.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mom had been born a redhead, and now 73, had enhanced her hair all her life. In fact, she loved her synthetic shade of gilded auburn so much that when her salon ceased carrying her favorite brand of dye, she ordered it herself and toted it to her appointments.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s not the money,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m getting tired of going to the beauty shop every five weeks.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFour weeks, sweetheart. You should go every four like me.\u201d She didn\u2019t budge, and in a trait we both share, tried to laugh off a serious subject. \u201cEven Gracie and Roxie go to the groomers every two weeks,\u201d she said, referring to her Maltese-poodle mixes. \u201cThey don\u2019t complain!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For once, I didn\u2019t snicker. Instead, I secretly worried. Maybe it was too soon to fling myself headfirst into this strange sea of identity. What if I didn\u2019t like the new me?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I retired early at age 49 from my job as a college admissions counselor because I wanted to ease the stress in my life, which worsened my M.S. and chronic fatigue. I had resolved to be more frugal with time and money, but my decision to give up the dye ran deeper. Although I walked without aid, my occasional stumble embarrassed me. By giving up a hair color that had never been my own, perhaps I would shed the last vestiges of my old self, and I might just begin accepting the real me, wobble and all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Although I wasn\u2019t sure, I had an inkling, call it a vague hope, that my unadulterated tresses laced with streaks of gray, might not be so alarming.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI think you\u2019re going to like the new you,\u201d said J.P., as he ran his fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck, which I couldn\u2019t yet see. \u201cIt sure feels a lot healthier.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Little by little, a mixture of chestnut and lustrous silver started inching over my head. The transition was so gradual that I wasn\u2019t shocked at all. And one year after walking away from the salon, my hair appeared to complement my skin tone in ways that the artificial tones never had. My hair now had character all its own. Even style. More importantly, I didn\u2019t miss the nose-burning chemicals, the tugging on my head, and the hours wasted in the salon chair. For the first time in my life, I felt truly free.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I could even joke with Mom again. \u201cWe still look like sisters,\u201d I reassured her. \u201cBut now everyone will think you\u2019re the younger one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh Ashie,\u201d she said. \u201cYou\u2019re so funny.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As the threat of COVID waned, I shed my mask and walked boldly into the sunshine. I looked forward to uncovering even more shades of the new me, hair and all. To my great surprise, my former critics\u2013other women my age\u2013came around. One day a stranger in the parking lot at the grocery store shouted out: \u201cLove the hair!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Another one cornered me in the bookstore. \u201cHow did you get that shade?\u201d she asked. \u201cI mean, how much did it cost?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNothing,\u201d I told her. \u201cNothing at all.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDo you think I should do it?\u201d She fingered her own hair, a blondish-brown that reminded me of my former tone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDefinitely,\u201d I told her. \u201cGo for it.\u201d<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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