Well, I've gone and done it!

Well, I've gone and done it! Not quite a hand basket to hell, no, not THAT bad. Disingenuous? Certainly. I didn't mean for it to go quite as far as it went.

"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.

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.

It's GOOD to be old!

Fran, you just don't get it! It's GOOD to be old! It's even -- perish the thought -- good to LOOK old, especially if you're frugal and love a bargain. Gray hair is especially useful. You get a head start on the privileges of age before you even get there! Those lines and wrinkles? They may not look great, but nine out of ten times they'll get you a seat on the subway at rush hour, and that's no small feat. Shoot a pathetic look at the young person sitting, and it's guaranteed. Lest you think movies and grocery stores are the only perks, think again. Be creative! Buying a new mattress? Ask for a senior discount and you'll probably get it. And don't stop there. My favorite line -- after, "senior discount, please," is, "Is that the best you can do?" You'd be amazed how effective it can be. So, why be young and pay retail? Age has it's advantage, and it's not just wisdom.

Best, Barbara

Senior Discounts

There are a few positives about growing older. I'm not ashamed to ask for a senior ticket at the movies, or when I book a flight.

Now, every Tuesday is "senior discount day" at my local gourmet market. If I need some special items - or even if I don't - I usually stop by. Looking around, it's obvious I am not the only one lured in by the senior discount.

So I make my way around the aisles, stopping to avail myself of the delicious little samples and the mini cup of coffee, then head to the checkout line. The clerk begins to ring up my purchase.

I wonder if I should tell her "senior discount, please." Most of the time, I wait until my items are all tallied. Then one of three things happens:

1. The clerk rings up the total forgetting the discount.
2. The clerk asks if I am eligible for the discount.
3. The clerk automatically deducts the senior discount.

Which feels best? Number one makes me think either he or she is being polite assuming I could not possibly be of age to qualify for the discount, or he or she is not paying attention. Number two makes me feel the clerk is following the manager's orders to flatter the senior customer by asking. Surely we both know I qualify. Number three makes me wonder if it's time to invest in cosmetic fillers.

Which approach do I prefer? Number three is the easiest - I simply pay and wheel my cart out. Number two requires only a simple yes. Number one means I have to ask for the discount and I wonder if doing so is undignified.

But the most demeaning thing of all occurs as I head for the exit. A young male employee smiles disarmingly. I return his smile. He asks, "Did you find everything, young lady?" YOUNG LADY!

Later, I ask my husband if a salesperson ever addresses him as "young man." He thinks, then replies: "No, but at some point they began calling me 'sir.'

Best, Fran

Is there such a thing as a "Survivor Gene?"

If there is such a thing as a "Survivor Gene" -- and I'm convinced there is -- my mother, The Queen, had it. Sometimes, she carried things a bit too far. Like refusing to leave her half-demolished apartment building.

The real-state magnate owner of the building mailed eviction notices informing the tenants the building was to be razed and they had 30 days to move. Two weeks later, the bulldozers suddenly began their assault. Of course, the owner's action was illegal and dangerous, but remaining in a building that resembled Dresden after the bombing was equally dangerous. The tenants fled, all except my mother and her good friend and neighbor. More outraged at the injustice than fearful of their safety, they stayed. I recall my daughter, a little girl at the time, telling me she was afraid to visit Nana because the stairs "were broken." My mother and her friend organized the former tenants, hired an attorney and sued the owner. I celebrated with them when they were awarded a cash settlement. Of course, Mater and her friend still had to move, but having stood up for themselves in the face of injustice made the ordeal easier. It also taught me a good lesson: stand up for yourself when you believe your rights have been violated.

The real-estate magnate is still around, frequently honored as a "Man of the Year" by the various charities he funds.

Best, Fran