The title says it all, no?
I lived a great majority of my life as a natural (dark) blonde, but my hair has a lot of red undertones. I’ve only colored it a handful of times (partly because I’m a huge chicken, and partly because it’s so darn expensive to have it done professionally), but depending on how the sun hits it, my hair color could seemingly change from day to day. It still can, only it’s from drab to… drabb-er. Or slightly less drab. [This was made known to me by my children, when making my Mii. I selected yellow hair, which made them giggle and say, “Your hair is SO NOT blonde, Mom!” and I had to get up and look in the mirror, because since when was I a brunette? (The answer to that is “Since NEVER”, because I am not dark enough to be brunette, but certainly not blonde anymore, either.) At least I could hold my head up high and proudly declare that there was not a single gray hair on my head.]
(Seriously, stop laughing. I was really sincere, albeit mistaken, in my declarations.)
I dyed my hair a lovely shade of red just before Christmas, and it’s quietly faded back to its not-really-a-definable-color blonde (brown?). With the fade came… (I can barely say it)… A GRAY HAIR. And then another, and then another. Stupid Loreal Superior Preference 4R– you made me go gray! I went out to tell Kenny about my horrifying discovery, and he could barely contain his laughter. (The jerk.)
“Kenny,” I wailed. “Look at this! And this! And this! I found gray hairs!”
“And?” he responded.
“AND they’re GRAY!” I said. “I’m officially OLD!” (To the man who has been steadily graying over the past 15 years. In hindsight, I deserved no compassion.)
“And?” he responded again.
“AND,” I said, confused, “they are my first ones. This is a really big deal to me! Well, at least I made it to 35 before I started going gray.”
To which he responded (with way too much mirth and way too little sympathy), “Oh, Honey. *giggle* You’ve had gray hairs for YEARS.”
And then the realization dawned that when I’m using the flat iron in my bathroom, and the sun streams in through the tiny frosted window, and the hair on my head erupts into a reddish-golden halo with countless metallic strands of follicular loveliness, well, those metallic strands are GRAY, not gold, and there are a LOT of them.
And suddenly coming up with $75 for professional highlights feels less like a luxury and more like a necessity. As part of his punishment, I think I’ll make Kenny pay for them.