On December 8, 2013 I found my first white hair at my right temple. I know this because I wrote about it and just smiled as I read over the description of this sure transition. I was thrilled this discovered hair was silvery platinum and bragged that I was so going to rock my senior living community as the gray-haired old biddies would be ever so jealous. I waxed and waned about how have a sparkling head of silver was going to be like the Gisele Bundchen of the retirement set.
Well, I got mine.
Jere (pronounced hed-ay; roll your r’s, people) was very thoughtful as he separated my hair into sections. Typically he’d run his hands through it as I’d talk over low lights v high lights, cut, etc. As soon as he nods his head in approval he drops my hair as if he’s almost throwing it away from him, turns on his heel and marches purposefully to the area where he mixes my highlights. I noticed the difference in his demeanor this time, this review of these sections of my hair. There was a moment of silence. He did not throw my hair away from him and was not listening to a word while I watched him in the mirror, curious.
He began very slowly, “There comes a time….”
I swear the pause lasted for fifteen minutes and required the sectioning off of each strand attached to my nape. It was almost as if he were looking to my individual hair shafts to offer him alternatives to whatever the end of the sentence was becoming. I felt as if I were almost standing under his chin waiting to see what words were going to drip from his gorgeous pout.
“…when we have to start coloring.”
Another extremely long pause before he finally finished, “Highlights just don’t work anymore.”
He didn’t even make eye contact.
Laughter bubbled out of me, “Jere, is my wisdom coming in?”
He almost audibly exhaled, “Yes. You are very wise.”
Jere went on to explain that we’d have to start coloring my hair a shade lighter than my natural color, which is a medium/dark blonde and add highlights. The tone would be different and his explanation still seemed to have clipped words and cautious pauses.
I wonder how many people have started crying in Jere’s chair.
I simply asked that we not try for ash blonde because green makes me look sallow and intimated that I was excited to see where this adventure takes us.
I’m ready for a change.
Not a change to polyester pants or Frayne fashions. You will not find me at Naturalizer or putting plastic sheeting over my furniture. Seriously, have you seen my legs? They still look twenty. I’m banking on those bad boys whether or not my feet are starting to kill me.
I’m just ready to wrap my arms around the shifts that I can’t change. They are the ones I’ve earned by way of time, life lessons and hard moments. I’ve earned my platinum locks and that’s not to say I’m not going to shellack the hell out of my head so you can’t be graced by their shimmer just yet, but I’m ok. I’m ok with the softness of my belly where my daughter grew, the lines that make my smile more genuine and the gracefulness of age.
So, I say to Jere – let’s do this. Let’s see where this new adventure takes us and maybe it will add a new tone, dimension and square of fabric to the quilt of my life.
After all, it is sewn together with strands of glitter.