I still dye my hair. Every time I get out the little box, I sigh and think, Maybe this will be the last time. It’s such a pain – smelly and messy and I always worry about missing a spot and coming out like Cruella de Ville. But then five weeks rolls around and I look at those white-and-mousy-brown roots and I think, Maybe just this one more time.
When I dye my hair I like to put on the TV in the bedroom, to help pass the 20 minutes or so I’m sitting around topless with my hair stinking like vinegar on a dead mouse, and for some reason it seems to always be showing The Price is Right. This season I notice host Drew Carey has let his hair go full-on Santa Claus white. I admire his boldness but sadly, the result is not so much silver fox, and more albino chipmunk. I think of Drew Carey as being something of a contemporary of mine – he’s about 12 years older than me – but I cannot possibly be that old. Not yet.
Today I’m turning 45 and that sounds like a big number, but it doesn’t quite seem like a white-haired kind of number. Still, around this time of year I get to thinking about how much longer I’ll put up with the little boxes of Natural Caramel Light Brown. Three more years? Four? Five?
When I talk like this my middle daughter begs me to keep dying it forever, to never change, to never grow old. I wish I could promise her that. I know she wants to believe I will always be here, exactly the same, sitting at the end of her bed with the lights out chatting at the end of the day. No grey hairs in the moonlight reminding her that I am only human.
I can stand a few more nice and easy years for that dream, for sure.