This morning I resolved to face root reality. The fading strands had gathered force. It was the aha-uh-oh moment. Fifty shades of gray–gradations of white to silver to salt and pepper—were sprouting. The vain vision quest launched.
I am not of the school that announces, “Be proud of your ‘laugh’ lines. You earned every single one.” Frankly, I don’t want to earn anything but perhaps a little praise if I ever produce anything of aesthetic note. Am I proud of my gray hairs because I “earned” them? (No, I just want cold, hard cash.)
I picked up an ammonia-free hair color package at the Kroger—shade #21. The face on the package was no more than age 19. Fine. I bow to all those talented airbrushers in NYC, LA, or wherever they do their magic spray jobs to sell fantasies to the unwashed in the hinterlands.
Sex sells in a multicultural market: In the same Clairol box, #21 is Crème au Chocolat in French and Crema Y Chocolate Castaño Medio in Spanish. With a beautiful roll of the tongue, I could order a Grande size of a similar-sounding beverage at Starbucks and drink myself to death on the flavor.
#21 in American phrasing? Medium Brown. I can hear The Donald yelling, “You’re fired!” at the poor soul who came up with that.
Who in the heck gets a job naming hair color of pedestrian shades? Medium Brown? The creators of #21 need to pooper-scoop that one—and fast.
Even I am more clever than someone who dredged up #21 Medium Brown. In fact, I’ve always wanted a job dreaming up a rainbow of paint chip names that embellish paint centers at Lowe’s and The Home Depot. I will blindly buy Benjamin Moore Calming Aloe paint for the living/dining room–because the sound soothes my soul.)
Just for fun, I came up with an alternative hair color label–#21 Luscious Ganache–in 3 seconds.
I tore open the box, following only the directions in French so Crème au Chocolat would top my head. Yum! Finally, my French major paid off. My dad unloaded a chunk of change in tuition so I could read the feel-good-Gallic-hair-dye directions in a $5 box located on the lowest supermarket shelf.
Hélas! (Alas!). The grays stubbornly dug in despite the dye job.
I am heading back to the mall salon to the adorable neo-punk hair designer who will mix up a no-name pretty color and tell me I have no wrinkles even under the hottest fluorescent lights. She will get a good tip every time.
If my hair goes Luscious Ganache Punk next month, I will post a Grande headshot of 12 million pixels for your viewing pleasure.