In other breaking news, I am growing out the grey (my voice-recognition software initially heard that as “Growing up Brady,” which really is an entirely different subject).
But. I’ve stopped colouring my hair. You may now choose to stop reading and go do something more useful, which is, essentially, the point. I’m just done with the whole process: the chemicals and the time and the money and the period of malaise when you know you should really touch up those roots but you don’t feel like it. Even writing this down, though, makes it sound as though I’m taking more of a stand than I am, because, essentially, the point is that I simply don’t feel like expending any more energy on colouring my hair. I have found at least one tiny area in my life where I can stop trying, and I’m embracing that area, and this makes me just a tiny bit less fatigued. Yay, lazy!
So, bring on the grey, which, unsurprisingly, has multiplied exponentially in recent years, years that not so coincidentally have coincided with — drumroll, please! — parenthood. I couldn’t figure out how to take a decent shot of my head in its current state, but you can see from these shots that I now have what may be euphemistically referred to as “natural highlights.” Except in my case, they’re grey. And that’s fine. Good, even.
But what’s cool is that, woven in between the grey and the not-grey are strands of bright red — pure and translucent as a strawberry lollipop. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere. (And I am so resisting the urge to add in some gratuitous last line about “teasing it out.”)