Me: Au naturel

I ran into an old acquaintance the other day at the grocery store. We made idle chit chat until we reached the passably polite point, and then, just as I turned and we made our goodbyes, she lobbed a conversational egg at my head and blurted: “What did you do to your hair?”

The yolk of this query drips down the sides of my head, coloring me embarrassed. Mortification wreaks havoc on my person, changing the sound and intent of the question into something much more shrill. The questioner’s face darkens and morphs to fit the now-harpy-like quality of the rude question that echoes through my brain:  “WHAT,” she squawks, “did you DO to your HAIR?!?”

Her now-tiny bird-like eyes pierce into my soul as her head cocks to one side, staring me down while awaiting my answer. And I am stunned.

You know, for a witty person, I really suck in these situations. When startled, I’m like a cow in the middle of the freeway: shocked into stillness, mouth chewing about wordlessly, completely out of my element. Instead of humor or snark, my shocked self merely pushes forth blatant, boring honesty. And while, YES, honesty is always the best policy, my lack of cleverness always leaves me with a nagging, almost feverish desire to redo the whole moment over again. I ache with the knowledge of what I could have said or what I should have done or how much better the whole moment could have felt if only I had just…

On the face of it, I realize the situation didn’t call for a snappy comeback. It was just a simple question based in curiosity and posited in what I took to be a brusque, almost rude, way. The simple form of the question embarrassed me because, frankly, this was the first indication I’ve had that perhaps my hairstyle isn’t liked by everyone. THE NERVE!

And here, dear reader, let me sate your curiosity: my hair is plain. It is not exciting. It is not painted with otherwise bright colors nor filled with feathers nor beads nor anything interesting nor beautifying nor exotic.

In point of fact, instead of my formerly long, blond-highlighted tresses gracing my delicate features, I have grown my natural color out and cut my hair shoulder length; now, shorter, mousy brown and naturally silver strands flop about my head. It’s a relatively bland, mom-like haircut.

I don’t miss the long blond hair; I’m 40. I don’t want to color my hair anymore. I earned my gray strands, one hair at a time. I like my Lily Munster stripes. I look my age now and, shock though it may be? I like looking my age. (Except the wrinkles.)

Still, thrown by the question, I eventually stammer that I simply stopped highlighting my hair. “I’m going with natural gray highlights now, instead of chemical blonde,” I smile. The quirky bird smiles back. “Welcome to the club,” she chirps, and walks on.

And for the first time, I realize her hair is completely white.