I was at the grocery store with my long silver hair pulled back in a ponytail. I had on a large coat and was reaching over to put potatoes in my cart, when I turned around. An elderly black man looked strangely at me as he had been ready to assist me.
He gasped, “Oh, I thought you was ancient!”
Shocked, his wife, also white-haired, stood and gently slapped his arm, protesting wildly to me, “No, your face is young! Your face is young!”
I promptly returned home and had Ross color my hair. If an elderly black couple, easily in their late seventies, thought that I was “ancient” at forty-one, then the silver hair had to go.
Ross kept out one streak of gray, since he said I’d had that when he met me and he felt that coloring all of my hair black would be too stark. For two
weeks, I had the most incredible jet black hair and I felt young again.
Then we went to Florida. I swam in the ocean and in the pool. I showered in the chlorinated water. Upon returning to Texas, I noticed my hair had red in it and then it changed to purple, reddish brown and no longer the lovely jet black it had been. I called a local salon. The lady informed me,
“All brunettes have red in their hair. It just doesn’t show up until you dye it. But since you colored your hair naturally, you can either go back to your salon and have them bleach and re-color it or you can just wait for it to grow out naturally.”
Through tears, I asked Ross to cut my hair. He was so compassionate as the locks fell to the floor. In fact, he had one of the kids sweep so I wouldn’t see how much was gone. Where it had been almost to my waist, now it was cut to my shoulders.
Several weeks into the growing out process, my 11 year old son looked at me. “Mom, it’s a good thing that you’re not a vain woman.”
Rather surprised I responded, “Why is that?”
“Because your hair looks hideous.”
Leave it to kids to tell you the truth.