When my hairstylist showed me a bold new hair color line, it was clear that cosmetology had progressed enough to allow me to have the long-desired, candy-colored tresses without destroying my hair. No bleaching to platinum, we could achieve pink, lifting the base color to the same blonde I’d been sporting for the past seven years. Good grief, when did I fall into such a hair color rut?! On a whim, after I decided that at my age I had earned the right to return to my more off-colored, past hair dye experiments, I decided to go for it!
“PINK ME!” I declared.
So began a most fascinating journey into the complexities of human nature. Twelve years of waiting tables and 55 years of studied observation have confirmed that people, for the most part, are all seeking the same things. We want to be loved. We long to be cherished. We ache for connection. We desire, above all things, to be accepted exactly as we are. Yet, we find it almost impossible to offer these things to others. The cycle of being hurt, feeling left out, finding ourselves disconnected because of an offhanded comment or worse, a calculated attack, breeds more of the same. We protect ourselves from pain, but in the process, we miss out on opportunities for joy.
Those who dare to live out loud, defy the rules, and embrace what makes them different serve as a mirror for those who are afraid to do the same.
“Hey! Put that away! Be quiet, calm down, blend in!” the world shouts.
Eventually we choose to comply or we say, “To hell with that!”
The funny thing is, when we let go of being who we think the world wants us to be, we find ourselves being met with the acceptance that eluded us in the years we spent pretending to be someone else.
It took dyeing my hair pink to free myself from the need to fit in, and I learned so much in the process.
Pink hair makes most people happy.
Yup. People smile at me wherever I go. I get so many compliments. They are curious, in a good way. Pink hair is a conversation starter and a goodwill harbinger. I’ve always been a friendly person, but now I’m finding a greater level of reciprocation. Pink is a pretty, happy, hopeful color, and it really resonates with a lot of folks. How cool is that?
Kids think pink hair is magical.
It’s the most miraculous, wonderful thing! Kids gasp, smile, squeal when they see pink hair. “MOM! She has PINK HAIR!” they say. The moms then apologize, but I say, “Oh it’s fine. I love kids!” I have stood in the aisles at craft stores and beauty chains dispensing advice on how to temporarily add pink to a child’s hair without damaging it. Honestly, I think kids are right: Pink hair is magic. Last year a little girl shyly approached our dinner table holding her stuffed rabbit closely and whispered, “Excuse me. I just wanted to say that your hair is beautiful.” I almost fell off my chair. As we were leaving, I gave her my pink floral pin, and she was so excited. We both won that day. Now that really is magical.
Some pink-haired ladies have a stick up their butts.
Sorry, hate to report this, but alas it is true. I was shocked at the mean girl antics of a few pink-coiffed adult women. They forgot that pink hair is a choice anyone can make and if it weren’t, there wouldn’t be a plethora of hair dyes in varying shades of pink on the market. They felt that pink hair made them special and that if other women had pink hair, it threatened their specialness. Silly ladies. What makes us special has absolutely nothing to do with our hair. The more candy-colored-haired ladies, the more fabulous the party! Bring it on! I love seeing my feeds filling up with ladies who have taken the plunge. As for the mean girls, get over yourselves. No one is copying you. You did not invent pink hair, rockabilly dresses, glitter, polka dots, decoupage, or liquid eyeliner, and neither did I. Live and let live, gals. Life is too short for that shit.
Most pink-haired ladies really get it.
Most of the time, I’ve had wonderful experiences meeting and talking with pink-haired (or candy-color-haired) ladies. It takes a certain kind of fearlessness to be willing to sport candy-colored hair. When we see each other, we smile that knowing smile that says, “Yup, me too. Rock on!” Sometimes we share hair dye secrets. Sometimes we high-five. Sometimes it opens a door to much deeper and more lively conversations. It’s like we’re part of a secret society of women who really don’t give a flying fuck what society thinks of us. I love that. That’s the stuff right there. More of this and less of the other, please, and thank you.
Pink hair requires time and monetary commitment.
In order for me to maintain this mane, it requires a fair amount of effort. I have to add color to my conditioner and apply it with gloves when I wash my tresses. It takes four hours at the salon to properly color this hair so it looks even and vibrant. My gray roots show much faster, which was problematic until a matching powder was created to apply in between color appointments. I have to wear hats when I’m frolicking in the sun. I can’t swim in a pool or the ocean or anywhere without a bathing cap. If I get caught in a rainstorm without an umbrella, I look like Carrie. Even working with a pro, we’re still learning how to make it work.
Be prepared to change your wardrobe if you dye your hair pink.
Alas, many of my formerly favorite outfits look dreadful when paired with pink hair. As a design expert who is relentlessly specific about color, I simply can’t go around clashing. I find black, white, chartreuse, orange, yellow, navy blue, gray, and kelly green work very well for me. You can do a tonal thing with shades of pink as well. Depending on the tone and intensity of your pink and the color of your skin, you may find a different palette suits you.
You cannot hide with pink hair.
If you’re shy and retiring or currently on the lam, it may not be the best plan to go pink. People can find you in a crowd in a heartbeat. You will be known, hereafter, as the “lady (or gentleman) with the pink hair.” On the other hand, if you’ve been feeling invisible, going pink will most definitely change that. People comment on my hair constantly, and I’m okay with that.
Pink hair helps give other people permission to color outside of the lines.
No, it’s true! I have had so many older women stop and compliment me and then say, “I wish I could do that. It’s so beautiful!” To which I reply, “But you can!” Then they say, “But what will the gals think?!” To which I reply, “They’ll think you’re brave and brilliant.” Several folks I know have decided to take the plunge and go pink, or blue, or green! I love that!
Dyeing my hair pink is one of the best things I have ever done. It helped me free myself from any final vestiges of desire to make myself less Technicolor. It’s made even the most humdrum days exciting. I wish I had done it years ago. I have no plans to go back.
Dye your hair pink, let it go glorious gray, shave it off, grow it down to the floor. It’s just hair, after all.
Women, Hair, and Power
Once a year I throw caution to the wind and enjoy a Shamrock Shake from McDonalds®. This delicious, neon-green concoction is my annual guilty pleasure. No lectures, please. I’m old enough to make my own gastronomic decisions.
So it was that last week I found myself sitting in the passenger seat at the drive-through of McDonalds, as the cashier yelled over to me, “How did you get your husband to let you do that to your hair?”
Wait, what? Did this 20-something woman just insinuate that I need permission from a man to make decisions about my appearance?
“Because I’m an adult,” I replied, “I don’t need permission to dye my hair pink.”
“My husband won’t let me dye my hair pink. Black, red, blonde, he even says I can dye it green . . . but not pink.” She looked at me with a combination of longing, confusion, and amazement. How did I achieve the impossible? How could I do something so utterly defiant of my husband’s right to demand that I follow his rules?
How indeed.
“Do what makes you happy and tell him to get over it,” I said, smiling.
She demurred, then replied, “Oh, he’d never let me do that.”
I had no answer. What can you
say to a woman who has ceded her power to someone else? She’s telling herself this story and for her it’s true.
And with that I paid for my shake and drove off into the sunset.
I’m still disturbed by this exchange. Are young women really this afraid, still, of being true to their desires? Do women still need permission to do what makes them happy? Have we progressed at all?
The truth is, there is a lot of stuff wrapped up in our hair. Figuratively speaking, and sometimes literally. My husband prefers my hair worn long—he didn’t think he’d like pink hair, but he does. I don’t style my hair for him, I style my hair for me. If I wanted to shave my head and tattoo my scalp like an 8 ball, he’d deal with it. He’s grown rather accustomed to my independence. In the many years that we’ve been together I have cut my hair off, grown it long, cut it off again, dyed it white, black, red, blonde, brown, and pink. He might not always love it, and he’ll let me know his feelings, as he is nothing if not straightforward and painfully blunt. We’ve approached our marriage as a partnership, not a benevolent (or malevolent) dictatorship. He knew going into this arrangement that I was a woman with a mind and a scalp of her own.
Being a person who has spent a lifetime dealing with unruly, ill-mannered, supersized, frizz-prone, and increasingly confounding locks, I have never been in love with my hair. I have never felt even the slightest fealty to preserving my hair precisely as it grows from my scalp. There’s something deliciously liberating about doing whatever the hell you fancy with your hair, knowing that it will grow back defying whatever adjustments you’ve made. Oh yeah, horrid hair, well here’s one for you. Take that!
You see, there’s a thread here around women, power, and hair, and it’s a fascinating one.
It’s a thread tied up in freedom or unraveled by the lack thereof. It’s about power. It’s about magic. It’s about conformity and adherence to rules. It’s a thread that confounds and confronts. We can be bound by it or we can allow it to set us free. The choice is ours, regardless of what tales we choose to tell ourselves. You do not need permission to choose joy, whatever that means to you. If you do, it may be time to reevaluate your reality.
MY HAIR-STORY
If you take a moment to gaze at the photo above, you will note my picture. It’s hard to miss, really, as it’s absurdly large. Once you got over the size of my giant head staring back at you, you might think, wow, she’s got pretty hair.
You would be wrong.
Yes, I have fooled you and everyone except those who know me best into believing that I was blessed with hair that would make Marcia Brady swoon. But I was not blessed in the hair department. Actually, I have plenty of hair, enough for approximately three people. The hair fairy triply blessed me, which may explain why the boob fairy got bored and wandered off elsewhere. Damn you, hair fairy. I have epic amounts of hair. Wild, crazy, frizzy, wavy, funky, defiant hair (much like the person upon whom it grows). In the never-ending attempt to wrangle this wild hair, I have had some dreadful hairstyles. Tragic. Epic. Hideous. “What the French toast?” hairstyles. It’s hard to believe that one child could possibly have taken so many horrid school photos. Yet, somehow, I did.
Kookie, Kookie, lend me your comb!
Or your brush!
Or a weed-whacker.
Whatever.
We begin with what is best described as a disheveled ball of strawberry blonde/light brown-ish, wispy cotton candy fluff that grew out from center in all directions. The only course of action was securing it back with ponytail holders (or hair bows if you live in East Tennessee, but we lived in eastern Pennsylvania, so . . .). As you can see in this series, which I’m calling The Early Years, my mother did her best to tame the beast. Unfortunately, the beast won the battle.
These are the two best hair days I had in those early years. This slicked-back look is achieved with a comb, water, and a lot of patience. I call the one on the right “cork screwed.” Remember those ponytail holders with the plastic balls? Do they still make those? Because if they do, I would totally rock them!
After endless admonishments from perfectly dreadful strangers, who felt it was their duty to tell my mother to brush my hair, she gave up. My hair would not bend to the brush, the comb, or the siren call of Dippity Do®. In fact, it Dippity Didn’t. In exasperation, my mother cut it all off, and voilà! How fetching is this? Is she a girl? Is she a boy? Did she have head lice? Well, at least she has nice eyes!
But wait, check out this baffling progression from dreadful pixie into some sort of shag cut gone terribly wrong. What are these tendrils and why? Did they sprout overnight like weeds? Paging Florence Henderson! Someone help this poor child! You will note that, along with my hair, my teeth decided to join the party and grow in opposite directions. Check out that canine on the right. Now that’s a tooth! (I am digging the Cheshire cat Izod Lacoste knockoff, though.)
From there, the hair grew and grew and grew and grew some more. As you can see, around sixth grade, I reverted to the ponytail holder solution.
Ah, the center part, I knew you well. You were not my friend, center part.
Remember Dorothy Hamill? I do! This is my attempt to smoosh my hair into a Dorothy-inspired wedge cut. Fetching, no? I won the Public Speaking Contest that year, along with a host of other awards. Shockingly, I did not win the Best Hair Award.
Braces were applied to my teeth, forcing them into submission. Then came the perm rods to force my hair into submission! Hooray! I showed that hair. Whodunit? I don’t remember, but they really should have refrained. Shirt, 1, Perm, 0.
Ah, that’s a little better! Braces off and teeth managed! Thank the good lord for Farrah, who helped transition me into layers, and Olivia Newton-John, who introduced me to the joyous wonders of the headband.
Post-Farrah/Olivia, I channeled Joan Jett, finding solace in the shag. Don’t ask about the eye shadow. No, really. Don’t ask.
Then came the Punk Rock Years and the gleeful discoveries of baby bangs, bleach, jet-black hair dye, and Aqua Net® Extra Super Hold. Heady days, indeed. Pardon the pun. You may be interested to know that I was in a band called Big Hair. You can’t make this stuff up, people.
Next came blonde hair, red hair, crazy hair.
Finally, we arrive at keratin-tamed pink hair.
Sisters of the Wild Hair—and I know you’re out there—take comfort in the knowledge that you are not alone. I feel your pain, truly.
Architectural Preservation
I think it’s high time someone pointed out that the empress has no clothes. The cult of beauty apparently requires an unspoken agreement to never admit that we do anything to “enhance” our features. It means women who have spent tens of thousands of dollars on what I like to call “architectural preservation” refuse to divulge that they’ve done anything, let alone what they’ve done, when, and how often.
It’s amazing how many women in the public eye are so well preserved after 40, isn’t it? I mean, they all swear they don’t use Botox, have fillers, wear false eyelashes or falsies, have boob jobs or nose jobs or tummy tucks or fanny lifts or chin implants or butt injections or face-lifts. They are, apparently, every last one of them (with the exception of the DIVINELY frank Joan Rivers), natural beauties who never age.
What is the reason for the deluge of denial? To pretend you never age when you’re stacking the deck makes women who can’t afford or don’t wish to have cosmetic surgery wonder if there is something wrong with them. Most of these celebrities are rail-thin; even if they were still young they’d have parenthetical lines around their mouths, yet amazingly they do not.
It’s magic!
Or they’ve all got a painting hidden in a closet or they bathe in the blood of ritually sacrificed chipmunks on the full moon every month.
They’ve ALL had some work done. It’s part of the deal. It’s like getting a tune-up on your car or replacing your engine after 100,000 miles. It’s what they need to do to keep getting work. That’s the hard, cold truth of it. If they had
knee surgery so they could still play football, we wouldn’t bat a single eyelash. What’s the difference, really? Why do they all lie about it? Do they honestly think we all believe that none of them have had work done? That their lips puffed up overnight, their nose shrank, their jowls took a trip to Tahiti, and their foreheads are naturally as smooth as a baby’s bottom?
Let me be clear: I think it’s entirely up to you to age gracefully, to age disgracefully, or to fight it tooth and nail. That choice is yours and yours alone. I think every gal should do what makes her happy. But I don’t think gals should lie about doing it, because that just adds to the never-ending pressure on women to be perfect.
There’s absolutely nothing wrong with a little architectural preservation, but there is something wrong with living a lie.
Zen in a Syringe
I used to get Botox on a regular basis. Yes, it’s a deadly poison, but it’s fabulous! I call it Zen in a syringe. Not only does it make your wrinkles go away, it freezes the muscles that make the wrinkles. The muscles in your forehead and between your eyes are the ones you use to make angry faces. Flex those muscles right now. Do you feel that? That’s what angry feels like. Okay, stop feeling that. No one likes being angry. The inability to make angry faces and therefore feel less angry is a side benefit of using Botox.
Now that I no longer get Botox, I have a permanent headache that lives between my eyes. I’ve developed a triangle-shaped wrinkle in my brow and a series of unwelcome horizontal lines on my forehead. Since my budget no longer allows for regular poison injections, I’ve opted for bangs.
When I used to get Botox on a regular basis, that headache disappeared. My forehead was smooth. The space between my eyes was wrinkle-free. I found myself feeling far less stressed out. In fact, I rarely got angry; the most I could muster was a slight semblance of annoyance. Meh. Then, when the Botox started wearing off, my family begged me to go get a refresher. Nobody likes Angry Mommy, least of all me.
Fifty and Other F-Words Page 8
