Too Young for Grey Hair
It was a time when I questioned who I was and if I should go on living to see what I would become. It would have been easy to hit rock-bottom, but my mom offered her hand…and her credit card. I’m talking about the time I accidentally dyed my hair gray.
I’ve been a chemically dependent blonde for a few years. Every six weeks my hair becomes a famous miniseries based on an Alex Haley epic. Read: Roots. All’s fair in love and hair, but one summer I decided to flirt with the dark side. I love chocolatey brown hair, but know I couldn’t achieve it without succumbing to another chemical dependency that could be even more grueling.
I settled for ash brown. The woman on the hair dye box looked blondish, but darker. I liked. This way, I could make a change that wouldn’t seem dramatic to anyone but me. I dyed my hair late at night. My mom, sister, and I had plans to go shopping the next day, so I rinsed my hair, conditioned it, and went to bed. It appeared to be light brown.
I can only imagine what I looked like lying in bed the next morning: birds chirping, suburban dogs barking, and light shining in from the window. The rays of sunlight shone on my sleeping face - freckles dotting my cheeks and nose, dark lashes crunchy with sleep, lips dry and slightly parted, hair as gray as steel wool.
Minutes later, I sat up, saw myself in a mirror, gasped, put in my contacts, and gasped again. My hair wasn’t ash brown. It was just plain ASH. Had the fires still been lit, I’d have jumped in and let the whole thing burn.
I screeched for my mom, instead of leaving my bedroom to seek her. No need to freak her out. I’ve seen the movie Big. I know how terrifying it must be to see your teenage daughter morphed into a geriatric woman.
My mom came in and God bless her, she didn’t laugh. I looked older than her! (She clearly knows to respect her elders). My mom told me to wash my hair again and consulted my sister, Megan.
I rinsed and pulled and cursed and repeated. I checked the shower drain for gray run-off. No such luck.
Megan thought back to what she knew about hair and makeup products - EVERYTHING - and said I’d probably need my hair chemically stripped to remove the gray. My mom, Megan, and I headed to a full-service salon to salvage my mane.
Here’s what you never want to hear after a home hair repair gone wrong: “Oh…my…wow…ummm…” I imagine this is what people who misplace plugs and hamsters in their anal cavities hear when they break down and go to the emergency room. It’s what I heard when I tearily took out my ponytail and the gray cascaded over my shoulders like a dirty waterfall.
My hair doctor asked what I had done, and I seriously wished there was a part in the retelling where I said, “…And then he put the gun to my head and said, ‘DYE IT OR DIE!’” Alas…
She sighed. “Ash means ‘gray.’ Never dye your hair a color with the word ‘ash’ in it, okay?” She didn’t have to tell me twice, but that’s how many times she had to strip my hair.
My mom waited patiently. She didn’t even read the magazines in the waiting area. When my hair went from gray to blonde, and I still pined for darker locks, she told the hair doctor to go ahead and dye me a shade darker, hold the ash. And for once in my life, I went home with the luxurious, overpriced shampoo and conditioner the salon was peddling. My mom insisted.
The salon bill was well over a hundred dollars; the act priceless.
My mom was my savior, my provider, my fountain of youth. With her compassion and Visa, she bought back my dignity, my self-esteem, my desire to live, and my hair. The experience taught me just how lucky I am to have her. Also, I stay at least fifteen away from any hair product with the word “ash” in it.
Amanda Green
