The decision to go gray is a big one. Especially in a society where youth is deified and the standard is set by a woman who has boatloads of money to buy personal chefs, personal trainers, botox injections galore and claims she understands the burdens of life. I imagine the salons filled with woman my age wondering if this is the right time, or should they wait just one more year. “Next year I think I’ll be more confident in the aging process” I fantastically say to myself as I flop my bevy of blonde curls to one side.
The challenge becomes acute for me as my hair is my defining characteristic. There’s no question about that. I refer to my college friends who, when we were deciding where to meet at any particularly crowded event the sentiment was “Just look for Schwaba’s hair!!”
When I was born I had brownish curls and a surprisingly circuitous hairline. In my baby portrait my hair looks startlingly like that of a balding 45 year old man who is wondering if he should begin the combover process. As I grew, the hairline was hidden behind the thick, coarse strands that grew like bamboo in the wilds of Asia. Fast and plentiful. Evidence of that, is a photo my brother Michael took of me, in 1965 me sitting in our backyard in the middle of two grand pumpkins, each supporting one side of my tiny body. Me in anklets, black Mary Janes, flowered corduroy pants, smart jacket and the locks of blossoming Hollywood starlet. Marilyn Monroe had nothing on 4 year old me. My hair was twice as big as my face and with my mother’s random and haphazard styling technique she unwittingly made it look like a mix of amber waves of grain and a blonde version of Bob Marley.
Of course as I became a teenager my hair became my bitter enemy. I pleaded with my mother to let me grow it long and finally her delaying technique of “When you are old enough to take care of it you may grow it as long as you like” fizzled, I began a 7 year process of growing it long, longer and longest. For those 7 years it remained, tethered to my head in an elastic band, a collection of varying lengths of jute cord that reached to my waist mimicking, exactly, a horse tail. Years later in my 20’s when I dated a guy who had attended the same high school as me, he informed me that my nickname had been (wait I had a nickname in high school?) Spider Woman.
“Spider woman?” I replied.
“Yes because of your hair” he responded. I’m still trying to figure that one out.
Now in the ensuing years all kinds of mousses, gels and pomades were developed which made the taming of the shrew much easier, but it still took a lot of work and much to my chagrin people still used my hair to locate various meeting points and destinations.
In an bold attempt to redefine myself in 1994 I shaved my head. Yep right to the skull. I told no one I was doing it, just for the shock factor. It worked, my good friends looking at me with concerned expressions and cocked heads, years later laughing at the look I thought was edgy and they thought insane. This cut corresponded to the unexpected time frame of my father’s passing, the process of which took 3 months. He worked his way towards his exit by becoming everything he had not been the previous 33 years I had known him. This dad was a talkative, tell the truth out loud, humorous version of himself, who randomly broke into song. He was perhaps prophetically drawn to the ballad Old Man River. He told me how great I was, ate soup that wasn’t there and requested his fantasy wallet off a dresser that did not exist. I liked this guy. When I took my shaved-head self in to see him the day he arrived at the hospital I walked into his room where he was alone examining the hem of his sheet.
“Hi Dad, how’re you doing? I bent to kiss his forehead.
He looked at me confused. “Michael?”
I laughed “No Dad, it’s me Tricia.”
”Tricia?” he exclaimed with furrowed brow.
”Yes dad it’s me.”
”What did you do?”
”I shaved my head”
”What the hell did you do that for? You look like a prisoner of war!”
Ouch.
That night I met my then husband at Barnaby’s for a pizza and a beer. It was one of those places where you place you order and go sit until they call your number. We heard our number. “I’ll get it.” I said, arriving at the busy counter where there was a lot of people buzzing around. The Friday happy hour into dinner time frame had brought out a lot of pizza and beef sandwich eaters. So I stood patiently waiting. He called our number again, clearly distracted by his many demands. I approached the counter and awaited instruction.
“Ok, Sir that’ll be $25.34.”
Ouch.
Fast forward to today, me teetering on the edge of this blonde or go gray dilemma, leaning more towards the idea of looking like the real me, instead of the me I wish I might still appear to be. Why is it that gray, which I suppose is ultimately an admission that I’m older and I’m now a part of a different crowd, so damn difficult?
Post-appointment I talked to my new north woods stylist after she did a color wash that had the effect of doing exactly what she said it would do, and exactly what I asked for; create a look that would help ease the transition into the new world of gray.
“I am just not sure, maybe I want to go back to blonde, It’s not vibrant enough, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” She called the owner of the salon, whom I had befriended in a flurry of initial appointments and, pre-appointment pleaded with, to give me a solution to my inner turmoil. Her solution was, of course, introducing me to said stylist. I stood before them, they with their beautiful hair, unique to each, both along the spectrum of red into strawberry blonde. They looked to my pate, contemplated, looked at each other with an otherworldly knowing, one only a stylist can have, returned to me analyzed, finally came to a minot consensus regarding the state of my “look”. They testified (yes I made them raise their right hands) that they loved it and I was totally pulling it off. My only reply was, “Really??” I remained unconvinced. A bit more staring at my head and me feeling self-conscious went on and then a collective decision was made. I would sit with it for a couple of weeks and then decide. Would I get back on the carousel?
I walked to the car clinging to their proclamations of “I love it!” got in and drove myself to one of my favorite shops. “Just a quick glance at the clearance items” I commanded my cut off image in the rear view. Clearance my ass. At this particular establishment clearance prices are higher than most regularly priced items at other shops and far above that which I should be spending at this point, especially considering I do not currently wear three quarters of the clothes I have in my closet. But hey I figured a nice expensive clearance shirt might help me like my gray better. It’s all part of the process of acceptance.
While gazing at the clearance rack I saw this beautiful orange button down with bell sleeves. Simple but elegant. Just my hopeful style these days. I plucked it off the rack and looked around for a mirror catching the saleswomen’s eyes. There were three of them behind the counter. One had waist long dreads, blond, thick and beautiful. I had seen her many time before. Her hair definitely defines her. “Hello” we both said with a smile. The other 2 women looked up as well offering their greetings, one of which struck me to my core.
”Oh my God I absolutely love your hair! Is that curl natural?” one saleswoman asked.
I looked behind me for another woman she may be addressing. No one there. It was me. ”Yes” I replied. Back to my hair. Ugh.
She confessed, ”I have been wanting to go gray for years and I haven’t been able to do it. Yours looks great!”
”Thank you so much” I said as I explained my inner dilemma in 45 words or less.
”No do not go back. It looks fabulous. You are inspiring me to do the same. I love it!”
The dreaded woman nodded her head in agreement and the third woman opened her eyes widely and said, “I agree!”. No disputes here.
The non-dreaded women, I guessed, were around my age, straight haired bobs to the jaw line, tastefully dyed blonde. I knew where they were. I felt that stab of possibility. I had given it to women I had seen who went gray, pulling it off with confidence and an energy that said, “I know exactly who I am and I’m going to own myself, my hair and the wisdom I’ve accumulated from living in a society that puts undo pressure on females to keep looking 35 for the rest of their lives; stay thin, asses tight, boobs high and God forbid no damn imperfections please!”
I took a deep breath returning my focus to the present, me standing with the orange blouse up against my chest, and I gave the saleswomen my profound gratitude for expressing their very kind words, pretty certain that they knew not the power of their unexpected compliments.
I looked down at the tag on the clearanced orange shirt. I replaced it on the rack. “Thanks so much” I called as I went towards the exit. I caught a vision of a woman in the mirror by the exit. She looked confident, despite the lines of life on her face and had a shock of wild gray hair. And surprisingly she looked just like me.
Screw it. I’ve made my decision.