I’ve always messed with my hair color. Growing up in Southern California, every time I played outside in the intense high desert sunshine, my hair color lightened by a shade. By the time we moved to the Washington DC area, I was a California blond. It was through a winter there that I discovered that my roots did not agree with my personal perception of my hair color self–I was definitely more of a reddish light brown than a golden blond. A couple of seasons in Utah did nothing to improve the color situation, and by the time I hit college, I was regularly ‘adjusting’ my roots to the titan blond I thought I was.
Pregnancies further darkened my hair and in my late twenties and early thirties, I bit the bottle and went red. Fast foward to another move to America’s third coast and I re-entered the golden blond highlights of my youth. My photographic record looks like an ode to all the hair color mentioned in the Nancy Drew mysteries; titan blond, red, brunette. Nancy, Bess and George.
Fast forward to the hormone-rendering effects of carrying both a boy baby and a girl baby in utero at the same time–I was officially seeing dark brunette roots. After the twins were born, I dinked around with a few more highlights, then threw in the L’oreal towel. It was official–it was time to go brunette and leave it alone.
But guess what?
All those blond highlights through the years had disguised a little follicle phenomenon–I was sprouting some white, and I mean white, little hair visitors. I had dodged the gray bullet for a long time–my mom and dad both went gray very early and my younger brothers have sported a distinguished salt and pepper for a while now. I assumed I was protected from those pesky white bristles, that it was all those pregnancy hormones, one side benefit.
Guess I was wrong.
So I do the whole brunette thing, only to find little white post-it note reminders of time’s ongoing march. No biggy, I think. I’ll just keep coloring the little guys. I’ve made my peace. I’m a brunette now, remember?
Except for this.
My white hairs do not accept color. They apparently are segregationists. They do not want a wash of Light Reddish Brown 4R tarnishing their lily roots. They are standing out in firm defiance against all things dye. They have also decided that they will be a completely different texture than the rest of their sister tresses. White, frizzy and defiant–that’s the new state of my head.
So what’s a girl to do? I think I’ve hit upon the answer. It was always so obvious, something I’ve known since childhood. It’s the one camouflage for these melanin-challenged follicles. It’s the one fix for diminishing gray’s distinguishing marks. And it takes me back to my roots…well, okay, my ‘roots’….
I simply will return to what I always knew deep down I was.
Golden Titan Blond. I get it from my Aunt L’oreal’s side…..Wed, 23 Jul 2008 12:20:00 +00002008-07-23 12:20:00julielylescarr
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