Silver threaded catfish whiskers

Photo by Cristina of Joy applying l'goop to my hair. 

Photo by Cristina of Joy applying l'goop to my hair. 

The first time I wanted to dye my hair, I was a 23 year old second year law student and a Madonna wannabe.  I tried to envision myself with bleached blonde hair and black eyebrows.  Ultimately I chickened out.

A few years later I was in Europe.  The Italian women had dark hair like mine.  But they had put copper streaks all through them.  This  was called a foil.  I could actually envision myself with copper locks. But again, chickened out.

Several decades passed.  My daughters began dying their hair.  Constantly.  But still I didn't.

And then the inevitable happened.  At the age of 49, I noticed a white hair.  Or rather my girls did and plucked it out.  Which drove me bonkers.  Eventually another popped up.

I was quite philosophical about the whites.

First, I thought it would be good for my career.  Unlike ageist industries that worship youth, aging is a plus for a trial lawyer.   We can add more years to our resume.  We are seen as more authoritative.  More knowledgeable. More serious. More scary.

Second, I am a time freak.  Absolutely hate wasting time.  Once you dye your hair you have to keep dyeing it.  This takes hours multiplied every so many months times your life time.  It is a ton of hours.

Three years after they first started popping up, I decided they were making me look messy.  My hair is a bit of a mess to begin with due to curlyness.  But there were these little white horns starting to stick up right around the perimeter of my face.

So today, on the spur of the moment Cristina books us into the Gary Manuel Studio.  It is a mile from the office.  That is a plus right there.  Cristina goes off with her stylist.  I go off with mine.

Her name is Joy.  She's 26.  You may be thinking, why would a 51 year old be happy with a 26 year old hair stylist.  Because she's delightful that's why.  She is thrilled to color my "virgin" hair.  The whole thing takes two hours.  Normally I would be moaning and groaning and probably throwing myself on the floor over wasting so much time in a salon (oh horror of horrors).

But today I am smiling as Joy puts goop all over my head.  And then washes and cuts my hair.  Truly, it is an alien experience.

Later that night I email Cristina and thank her for forcing me to get my hair dyed and making me look better.

She writes back:  "First of all it doesn't make you look so much better. You were beautiful with the silver threaded catfish whiskers but you have evolved."