E is in the States and on his list of things to buy are half a dozen boxes of L’Oreal Superior Preference Hair Color in medium amber copper brown. L’Oreal sells lots of hair color in Europe, but not Shade 5 ½ AM. MY color.
It’s funny how I’ve come to think of this shade as “my color.” True, it’s a close match to the hair I was born with —a coppery color between auburn and brown. But if I were honest with myself, I’d admit that “my color” is really the dull shade at the roots that disappears every four weeks under a fresh application of L’Oreal 5 ½ A.M.
I started coloring my hair when I was 39 and the hair framing my face started to be overtaken by gray. Throughout most of my 30s, I kidded myself that my gray hair wasn’t so band and looked like highlights. Later when I’d walk past a shop window and glance at my reflection or see photos of myself, I’d recognize the unmistakable skunk stripe that was working its way back from the front of my head toward the crown.
When I was a fresh-faced 20-year-old with waist length hair and pink cheeks, I told myself I’d never dye my hair, I’d age naturally and gracefully. This is only half true now. At 39, I was resigned to the lines on my face but not the streaks in my hair. When you’re 39, you want to believe only 50 year olds should have a lot of gray hair. (I’m betting when I’m 50, the acceptable age for gray hair will bump up to 60. Ha!)
And so, much to my surprise I started perusing the hair color aisles before my 40th birthday, looking for the perfect color. Medium golden brown was good, but medium amber copper brown turned out to be the Holy Grail of Hair Color. It was ME, only better.
Now as my roots catch the light and wink at me from the bathroom mirror, the truth bitch-slaps me in the face. Like it or not, the mirror reports, the REAL me, has a ton of gunmetal gray hair. Not a striking salt-and-pepper mix, not a glamorous silver grey, and not the rich copper color that’s been my trademark since childhood.
Without the L’Oreal, my hair would tell the world that I’m old enough to be a grandmother. A grandmother! It hurts to even TYPE that, but if I’d had children when I was first married, and they’d had children at the same age, I’d be some toddler’s Nana. Good lord, why did I mentally go there?
Lately, I’ve been envisioning liberating my inner Gray-Haired Grrrl. I tell myself that hair dye can’t alter the truth and that my face and disappearing waist declare my age anyway. Why not GET REAL? Why not GET GRAY?
A part of me is clamoring for authenticity and demanding I claim my age and accept how it really looks. My inner FemiNazi has some issues with hair color. But the other part of me is still sliding her legs into Levis, letting her eyes linger too long on those photos of Becks and Luca Tony, and wishing she could go out with the girls and kick back. My mental image of myself is frozen somewhere around age 30, before motherhood and gray hair entered the picture. Those were the days when I had the lithe figure of a runner, hot pink accessories on my little white car, the latest music in my CD player, and the ability to make a miniskirt sing.
Those days are over. That Grrrl is long gone. But I’m attached to her. No, I won’t humiliate myself with short skirts, motorcycle jackets, or silly car accessories, but the L’Oreal 5 ½ AM? It’s all I’ve got left of the Grrrl I left behind. I’m not ready to trade bronze for silver. At least not yet. Maybe when I’m 50. Better yet, make that 60.
August 21, 2006