It’s been suggested to me that I spend an inordinate amount of time talking about my derrière. Guilty as charged I say. So today let me take you back to my other overused topic, my hair or mes cheveux as they say around these parts. What can I say? I lead a dull and superficial life. If it’s depth you seek go pick up some Thoreau and leave the rest of us to ponder the arse in peace.
Anyway, most of you know that I have grey hair. I’ve had it for well over a year now. In fact I had it all along just cleverly hidden by a bottle of Spiced Honey #7. Ever since deciding to go au naturel I’ve been developing a perhaps unhealthy pride about my silver strands. When I say pride I mean conceit, smugness, unabashed nauseating narcissism. It started with people commenting on it here and there, then a couple of women I know were inspired to let their grey grow out, then I got all kinds of cyber compliments and I began to believe my own press.
I cannot find one grey haired woman from my high school class, absolute proof that I rock. I’m a rebel, edgy and confident, unwilling to bow to trends and fear of aging. The other day one of the coolest guys from my high school days left a message on my Facebook page saying he thought I looked hot. In fact I think the words “aging beautifully” and “bombshell” were used. And that’s the game. I’m officially a vainglorious lunatic who thinks that my hair colour is unsurpassed by any other.
And so, fueled by my ever expanding hair ego, I’ve been keeping it as silver as possible with goopy purple shampoos and periodic peroxide combined with countless self-congratulatory hours in front of the mirror telling myself that I am indeed the fairest of them all. And, as is often the case, this much wants much more. So I decided to let it grow. Oh the visions of Emmy Lou Harris, long silky locks, silver waves flowing in the wind and sparkling in the sun.
Instead what I have is an 80’s mullet. Less Emmy Lou, more Norwegian women’s prison warden. But that’s not the worst part. The left side of my head is now patchy with what appears to be bright red hair. I imagine that I am the only woman on the planet pulling out coloured hairs to preserve the grey ones. I’d been yanking out the offenders with tweezers until I realized that there are just too many and gave up. Now, my head would expand to epic proportions if it was covered in a bright coppery mane but sadly the side of my head looks like a mangy tabby cat. It’s odd because I remember my natural color hair as being brown although to be fair after all this time who the hell knows?
I think what’s going on is after 10 years with Rusty I am slowly morphing into him. Some sort of weird Sci-fi osmosis where one slowly takes on the characteristics of the other. Fine. I’ll take his red hair and sacrifice the one thing about my appearance that I actually like. As long as he throws in that peachy piece of granite he sits on every day then I’m happy to toss him a few inches in height. And because I am so kind and giving he can also have all the periods I have left in me, my nylon induced crotch sweat and my armpits with their permanent 5 o’clock shadow. A good marriage is all about give and take.