It always happens, every time – every damn time. And, in this, after a lifetime of mods and shifts, I’m anything if not predictable. I mean, my ex used to roll his eyes at the whole obsession but hey, “If you don’t know me by now” and all that, right? In fact, anyone who knows me well at all knows that I’m always up for short term relationship when it comes to my hair, as I’m eagerly itching for change mere weeks after any given dramatic alteration – of which there have been just so many.
And, certainly without surprise or fanfare, here I am again: Bored AF with my hair as it grows out at a painfully slow pace. My natural mousy brown color (which we haven’t really seen in going on four decades now) is increasingly low in melanin with each new guard-one-growout, and this go sees half my head decidedly more salted then peppered – practically white, even.
I know, I know. A decade ago we all hated the supposed mark of age, denying our gray existed at a quick and expensive trip to the salon, or a boxjob that burned the scalp and stained the skin for a few days. But, today? Times have changed, baby.
People pay good money for the color I’m effortlessly sporting – and not just old ladies. Like the young balding men of the ’90s who called a loud “hell-to-the-no” to their Daddy’s comb-over, gray, like bald, has become cool. And in the 80’s neither graying or balding folks thought there was much cool about either. Today? Psshh. And more than that, age? Has nothing to do with either supposed affliction. Shave the head, go au natural, it’s alllllll good.
And still, that ADHD brain of mine seeks something new, and since I’ve nearly gotten past the dreaded cowlick phase of the grow out – and I AM NOT GOING BACK, I sought alternatives. I found me a wig – a blonde hombre beach wave that fell just below my shoulders. I placed this squirrel atop my noggin and, holy crap, I was transformed into a different person – undeniably younger than I actually am. And not a single person at work knew who I was – patron, nor co-worker – until I spoke up. Hard to deny me when I start talking – because, ya know, I talk d’a lot.
It was a fun afternoon of playing like I was someone else – looking like another, driving a car that isn’t mine, filling the shoes of an unknown. And, no, I don’t think my wig days are over. But all said? The hair I’m sprouting – in all of it’s wirey, lackluster texture, and varying shades of interwoven black and white, is a part of me, after 51 years of a life lived. This is what I look like – and I’m just perfectly okay with it.
Still? Yeah, no doubt Ima be rockin’ different wigs now and again! This if only to keep me from doing something drastic like buzzing it all off again! I mean, as I always remind myself when the clipper is at the scalp, “It’s just hair. It always grows back.”