Of all the issues I have debated insanely with myself about, weighing all the pros and cons, asking informed people their opinions and reading up on the issue to educate myself, including such stuff as whether I should marry the man who is now my husband, whether I should quit working in the secure megalith newspaper and move to a dotcom, whether I should go through invitro fertilisation and whether I should get my blackheads removed via suction machine or steel piercing thingie held by beautician, nothing has had me so much in a tizzy as the issue of getting my highlights touched up. The highlights were put in way back in January of this year. Seven months have passed. The roots are now shoulder length. I have wonderful two toned hair now. Jet black from the scalp to the ears. And a wonderful blend of honey gold and straw at the bottom. The kind Cyndi Lauper sported. Do you even remember Cyndi Lauper? Any dinosaurs reading this would, she being from the Ice Age of one’s youth. Only, she had pink and black and yellow and every colour on the planet in her hair, and looked damn cute while she was bopping around singing “Girls just wanna have fun.” Then of course, this girl got married. And stopped having any fun. But thats another post altogether.
Coming back to these highlights. Yes, the hair is like the straw Rumpelstikskin spun into gold. The straw part, not the gold part. But there is some inherent charm in being gilden headed, which off sets the absolute need to be fully made up in public. It gives you the sunkissed, beach blonde look, even though the only time you have been on the beach in the recent past has been with full sunblock and hat, and umbrella and full sleeved shirt and sarong, for refusal to turn skin into black. Already being nut brown, and given the propensity of the melanin to turn to black on slightest exposure, might just have to put aforementioned hair into braids or dreadlocks, and get into the dance hall look.
Anyway, informed sources and people with chronic highlight fixation (am getting there fast), tell me the pros and the cons. Hair that needs intensive oil massages every week. Do that anyway, just hand the brat the oil bottle and my head and he drums up a storm to rival any masseuse. All I need to do is ensure said oil massage is done with both of us sitting on the floor, and dirty oil massage bedsheet is spread on the floor. The tragedy is that having resuscitated my head and hair, he insists on inflicting his skills on the rest of the household including Noddy and Spiderman. And a sudden desire to pour the entire contents of oil bottle on the television might be a negative fallout which has to be risked in the better interest of better, shinier, longer and more lustrous hair.
The other downers include split ends, and a sudden surge in the number of greys sprouting along the hair line, which then in turn requires more of that peroxide to conceal to the end a situation where one does not know where the blonde begins and the grey ends, the two merge so seamlessly. Perhaps that should be the ideal blend, a mix of blonde and grey I can go gently towards as I grow old, so I can one fine day realise I can stop highlighting as all the hair is now a uniform grey. (BTW, loved Meryl Streep’s white cloud in The Devil Loves Prada, inspired of course, by Anna Wintour. Had it been me, would have covered it over with a bad patchy home done dye job, and hoped and prayed I still looked glorious.) Or I could be brave and let the grey stay, untouched by any hair colour, and let the highlights grow out or snip them off mercilessly. But have never claimed any distant relation with bravery, am the biggest coward you could find on the face of this planet, therefore I will take myself to the parlour and get them roots touched up. Before I become an ad for a bad hair day.
I take refuge in this quote from Helena Rubenstein. “There are no ugly women. Only lazy ones.” Yup. Thats me. The second category. Became ugly by default. Laziness, that will be the death of me.