Disclaimer: Am not fishing. Am not. Am not. Am genuinely terrified of going grey so soon.
For reasons that I will not get into here, and bore your reading eyes out of their sockets, I had a right nasty scare last week. And this week, I find the entire hairline has changed colour from raven black to antique grey. No make that white. Cheeky white. Aged white. I could tie on a bandana and pretend I’m the rockingest thing to hit the planet since the asteroid that wiped off the dinosaurs.
I could go grey completely and unfazedly and pray to the good lord on bended knee to give me the confidence to carry off the look with the panache it deserves.
Or I can continue to dip my head in the dye bowl every fortnight and hope I don’t end up looking like a dye head with the scalp all black and a sure giveaway of borrowed youth snatched from the jaws of ruthless Father Time.
Having weighed all said options, bandana is not an option given one is knocking on the sturdy sensible and practical doors of middle age right now, and should actually getting military strength support hosiery along with practical shoes with sturdy soles and fling out them flimsy stilletoes I teeter along precariously in. Going grey is even so much not of an option, given that on a good sunny day, my skin looks grey and overcast without any added help from powder compact and foundation and wouldn’t want to go all monochromatic and undramatic, and no Anna Wintour is not my icon, and even she’s gone brown these days, so there. Nafisa Ali has the fabulous skin and the fabulous presence to carry of the look. Should I let the head become a grey helmet, I could just paint the nails black and the lips blue and find myself a coffin to lie in during the day.
Therefore the dye bowl and brush have now become my best friend and ally in these trying times. Having said that though, my tryst with them is limited to occasions. Occasions that are few and far between. Read, I am lazy about touch ups. I hate slicking on the stuff onto my hair. I cannot see too well without them spectacles and end up missing prime strands of in your face grey which then wave cheekily at me once I have washed off said dye and conditioned said hair. Needless to say my highlights have gone for a complete toss into the dye bowl. I rather liked myself with platinum highlights. Looked as fake as Pamela Andersen with her double Ds. And as in your face. I like being in your face. As anyone who’s seen my latest bag will testify. No sane person goes around with a gold bag in public. Rather no person with wallflower written on her forehead goes around with above mentioned bag or leopard print bag for that matter. Never mind that the bags often get more attention than I do. Yup, attention seeking bags rather do their work for the rest of me.
But dunking hair in dye bowl doesn’t for good highlighting allow. Maybe I should do a Patricia Greene and dunk the entire head in some horrifically blazing colour like red or green. Would also need to make provisions for a home on rent considering the husband would fling me out on a limb the moment I did any such drastic alterations to appearance, being of traditional beliefs and conservative in nature. This is a man who fell to the floor in shock and pained disbelief the day I got my hair ironed out for a party saying I looked like something the cat didn’t drag in for a change, and it didn’t suit me a bit, could I mess it up again please. You know? I’m scary when I’m neat. You know, the scene where the Joker spit slicks his hair back when he closes in on Maggie Glynnehaal in The Dark Knight. Yup. You like him better hair a mess, he’s scarier when he’s neatened a bit. Yup. That sort of thing. The child has been known to stare at me skeptically when the hair is slicked back and oiled and plaited down. And inch away in fear.
But I digress. As usual. To summarise in a long winding line that doesn’t get anywhere to the point, I have decided to slap on the dye till my dying breath. If the hands and feet are still functioning and can do said slapping on myself without the assistance of helpers and kind relatives called into the ranks of those enlisted to part said hair and check for truant white ones hidden deep in the recesses only to pop up and grin at one during inopportune moments like staring at self in changing room mirrors where as it is, every damn extra bulge of fat gets magnified into cube proportions and cellulite ripples as one bends to extricate oneself from whatever one had tried to get into. Until the deathbed or until the hair stays on the head. Perhaps I should do a Persis Khambatta and be free of this added stress.
Therefore, earnest plea. Anyone with home remedies to delay greying kindly to let me know. Will be handmaiden till dying days, etc, etc. Wouldnt do for people to ask the child if thats his grandmother accompanying him.