Gray tresses, don’t care, I am not my hair. Wait, I do kinda care. Oh my, look at the gray hairs. They came in the middle of the night, two by two, like livestock off Noah’s great boat. I was all of twenty-six and going salt and pepper. That could not be right. I was in my twenties, perky with wrinkle-free skin. There were so many things I had not seen or experienced. It was an attack upon my blossoming vanity. My salon trips would need to be more frequent. I would require visits for perming it straight, coloring, and fierce cuts. The rules of hair engagement dictated that you could not perm and color in the same visit. I am not my hair. I am not my hair. It is so unfair.
In my thirties, I went through a period of “frankly hair, I don’t give a damn.” I shaved it off and rocked a close fade. It was an all or nothing kind of look. People either really loved or hated this style. It is your hair, but people clearly have an opinion, ask Beyonce. Why would you do that to yourself? What does your man think of you cutting it all off? Is he okay with it? I also received responses of how this was such a bold move. Hair is hair, no matter how fair. I cut my hair. I did not start the civil rights movement, find a cure for cancer, or secure world peace. As my hair would grow back, so would the gray hairs. Marching like warrior extras from a “Lord of the Rings” flick, the army of gray would expand its reach further and further through the kingdom of my head.
Color and wonder, wonder and color, I was embarrassed about having to color my hair at such a young age. Then one day, I just had to get over it. Either I would walk around like Storm from Xmen or get my hair colored. I have tried different brands, but prefer L’Oreal Feria permanent color. It always comes out very rich looking. A few years from now, my hair will be completely white, but right now, I just want to hold on a little while longer.