HAIR

I've been a little preoccupied lately, and haven't been keeping up with the mundane things in life such as coloring the old grey hair. I never gave it much thought until about ten years ago, when my husband started making "old grey mare" and "grey as a mule" remarks (he's nothing if not romantic). I originally wrote it off as jealousy, since at the time his hair was rapidly losing the battle for territory with his forehead. Hah, I thought, just sour grapes. But then my brother started nagging me too. He's a real diplomat: "My God you're grey!" - "Your hair looks like crap." -"Why don't you dye that rats-nest?". You know, subtle hints designed to spare my feelings.

Now, he's pushing fifty and still sports a luxuriant mullet that would turn Joe Dirt green with envy, but I was still skeptical until the day I got reading glasses and a decent mirror light. YIKES! Where did that grey-haired old bat come from? Okay, okay, I get it. Off to Wal-Mart for a box of instant youth.

The results were pretty good, so for years I've been dyeing my hair a basic boring brown. Unexciting, but better than grey. But lately I've been putting it off. That little strip down the center of my scalp has been widening steadily, eventually giving rise to the usual Pepe le Pew comparisons from my eagle-eyed family members. I'm not sure why, but this time I decided to do something a little different (here's where the warning bells should have gone off) and change the color ever-so-slightly. Maybe put a little red in it - after all, I had auburn highlights in the prehistoric days of my youth - it would probably suit me. So I bought the same brand, same basic color, just with a little red thrown in. Or so I thought.

Well, I thought wrong. That box did not contain "copper-red brown" like it said on the label. Oh no, it was more like "Highly Unlikely Red", "Incredible Redible", or "What The Hell Were You Thinking?". Or, as my comedically-inclined daughter suggested: "Prosti-tutti-frutti". I think not - with this look, I couldn't give it away in front of the Courtenay House at twenty-five cents a pop. I mean, it's really hideous. Calling it God-awful would be a compliment.

You can't possibly imagine my feelings when I viewed the final result (unless you have had the same unfortunate experience, in which case you have my sincere condolences). The first glance at my flaming head brought to mind visions of Nicholas Cage in Ghost Rider. It looked like someone had doused my head with red paint then set it on fire. As I stared into the mirror, I found myself gripped by the overwhelming urge to go out and slap cuffs on the Hamburgler. Oh man, this one is going to be hard to live down.

But I'm stuck with it now, for redder or for worse, for at least a month - I'll just have to wash it lots, wait for it to wear off, and maybe start wearing a hat. Or just stay home and pretend I've gone on vacation. I've already resigned myself to looking like some kind of geriatric streetwalker, but the worst is yet to come. My brother hasn't seen it yet. I'm already steeling myself for the Olympic Torch jokes.