"I'll just do a little bit," she said. "We'll take it slowly, see how you like it. We can always add more."
I could have believed her, but I'm not entirely innocent. After all, I watched as she partitioned, then slid slices of my hair, my gray-white hair, slathered them with cream-brown-green slosh, and made tin foil sandwiches all over my head. Truth be told, I liked the look before the tin foil came off. I looked absolutely aerodynamic, space-age chic, a "Martian Matron."
Don't get me wrong. I
LIKE my gray, but I'm not a "virgin." In the past, I routinely -- and sometimes disastrously -- colored my hair. The "disastrous" part has to do with upkeep, always a personal shortcoming. After a while, my auburn hair would fade to pink. Well-meaning friends would pull me aside and point to my two-inch long roots. When I met my husband in 1991, he liberated me with seven simple words: "I think gray-haired women are sexy." I didn't skip a beat. "I think I can oblige you," I said, and that was that.
LIKE my gray, but I'm not a "virgin." In the past, I routinely -- and sometimes disastrously -- colored my hair. The "disastrous" part has to do with upkeep, always a personal shortcoming. After a while, my auburn hair would fade to pink. Well-meaning friends would pull me aside and point to my two-inch long roots. When I met my husband in 1991, he liberated me with seven simple words: "I think gray-haired women are sexy." I didn't skip a beat. "I think I can oblige you," I said, and that was that. Later, when we moved from Los Angeles to New York, I discovered low maintenance "low lights," the perfect compromise. Leave most of the "salt," but just add back a pinch of "pepper," and I grew to trust master colorist Gary Collins, a sweet, gentle man who worked out of his apartment on West 16th Street while his little Yorkshire Terrier, Gracie, bounced around the room chasing myriad objects. Then we moved to Woodstock where gray is good.
My mother, the Queen, never colored her hair. She must have thought gray is good and white is wonderful because she withstood the pressure all of us -- sisters and daughters -- brought to bear. But the Queen was proud. Whatever her reasons, she chose to put them in that private, impenetrable place where secrets reside, a place where she remains unknowable, safe from the probing of all who sought to unravel her complicated being.
When I awake this morning and look in the mirror, I see a stranger and it is not altogether unpleasant. It's me and it's not me. I see that I am mutable. I wonder what the Queen would have said.
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