Here’s the problem. I was born a redhead, and that’s the main reason why my husband married me. He adores redheads. But somewhere along the way, my locks betrayed me. My lovely (even if I do say so myself) red hair gradually turned to a yawningly monotonous brown. And someone began to complain. “Married a redhead! What happened?” Without missing a beat, I countered with, “Married a guy with hair. What happened?” But this failed to quell him.
So I got sick of hearing this. On the advice of my formerly redheaded cousin Mary, I resorted to the bottle. My clever hairdresser Katie made a close match to a photo of me in younger days. I’ll admit to a moment of fear after she applied that horrendous orange goop to my hair. I could have passed for Queen Elizabeth I, her red tresses contrasting sharply with her pasty white complexion. I had bought the proverbial farm. What could I do at this point but take a deep breath and wait. And the result was dramatic.
I love my new red hair. But it somehow no longer matches my face, which is unfortunately changing. It’s just not as young as it used to be. And now I’m noticing what happens when older women color their hair with subtlety unconsidered. No one is really fooled. Startled maybe, but not fooled. However, I’m grateful to still have my hair. And the deed is done, for now. So I guess I’ll just enjoy it and pretend I’m still 30 years old.