Jessica Rabbit: rocks red hair, never goes grey.
I’m at war with my hair.
As if the whole tussle with turning 30 wasn’t enough, I woke up one morning, innocently stumbled into the bathroom, switched on the light and suddenly wondered why the regrowth from my previous dye job looked even mousier than usual.
“Mom! I’m going grey. I’m going grey!? Mom???!!!” This was me about thirty seconds after the first sighting.
“Yep”, breezed mom. “That sounds about right. I also went grey quite early.”
“And you never told me? I’m, like, totally unprepared for this trauma! I have no drama left after spending it all on a glorious 30 breakdown! How am I supposed to suitably protest this indignity when I’m not firing on all emo cylinders?”
Mom had no answer. She wasn’t particularly fazed, either. After all, it happens to the best of us…
So first, I tried plucking, raking through the strands looking for the faintest hint of silvery white. It reminded me of the time when a “friend” from school plucked a hair from my head, and told me it was a “black hair, so that meant it was dead”. Dumb, horribly, but for a while my parents had to slap my hands as I obsessively plucked those “dead zombie hair”.
Then, I went depro. Finally, a bit of my gloomy resources had kicked in. Why me? Why? I’m still faffing around in pink pyjamas! I managed to kick being 30 in the teeth so far by refusing to act my age! What, do I have to officially grow up now? Bugger.
And also, does this mean I HAVE to dye my hair from now on? I’m horrible at maintaining anything remotely resembling “glossy colour” and “cutting-edge style”, so what will happen if someone taller than me (pretty much everybody) looks down on my regrowth and counts the grey ones?
Then I thought, maybe I can pull off a Jackie Burger – Elle’s editor’s long been famed for her mop of silver hair. But with my luck, I’ll have ashes and gunmetal instead of snowflakes and glitter.
So then… I phoned my haidresser. Yes, I actually have one, wild-mop evidence to the contrary. I’ve known her for a few years, and she always manages to come up with ideas and styles and colours that keep me happy and plays into all my hair shortcomings. We experiment: I get to pretend that I’m ultracool, and she gets to do… whatever she feels like, really. Except for fringes that hang in my eyes.
Only this time, I had to travel all the way to Fourwegia – our name for that doerandgone Jozi suburb on the other side of the highway. Damn you Ines for moving so far away! But I did the Groot Trek, and felt calmer the moment I sat down in that black leather chair. Right. Shall we do post-box red? Asymmetrical fringe? Some light chopping? And I’ll toss in a glorious scalp massage just to round things off.
Three hours later (yes, really, one can’t rush these things) I sauntered out on a bit of a cloud. My head actually looked human again, and I got rid of several birds’ nest and a growing bat colony. Also, no grey – just shimmering red.
But as always, happiness is fleeting. My hair decided to kick back by refusing to hold onto the colour… Well, okay, it’s also my fault. I can’t go a day without washing. But I’m trying now… Cold rinse, every second day… I shall hold onto this firecracker feeling if it kills me!
