Metal Head Mom

I remember the day I discovered the bottle. I had just turned 18 and a friend dared me to try Miss Clairol № 9. I’ve been hitting the sauce ever since.

Everyone was doing it back then. No one judged me; after all coloring one’s hair was the socially acceptable thing to do. But like most addictions, it eventually became a gateway to the hard stuff; salon treatments. I began meeting my colorist on the side for quickies every six weeks. In between, I used temporary color to satiate my growing need. I was a slave to the bottle and in the end, I had to admit I was hooked. I was a hair color junkie!

I’d like to report that I was able to quit cold turkey, but sadly, that was not the case. One look at those tell-tale gray roots in the mirror and I’d crawl back to my colorist begging for a fix. I went on this way for years. Twenty to be exact.

Then shortly before my 40th birthday my husband, a man with little use for grooming products, suggested that I let it go “natural”. The idea terrified me. Me, go gray? No way! But he convinced me to try it. Eventually, the love of a good man helped me kick the bottle and embrace the gray side of life.

At first my friends questioned my decision. They told me I was too young to go gray. Why would a young mother of three want to look like a woman twenty years her senior? I began to doubt my sanity when I looked in the mirror. Were my friends right? Did I look old before my time, I wondered? Had I lost my youth? Would I still be perceived as attractive? Did beauty come only from a bottle? The answer to these pressing questions became clear as my new look took shape.

But I didn’t look like old and washed-out as anticipated, quite the opposite. The emerging color was a shiny, attractive silver. Without the constant barrage of chemical treatments, my hair was healthier than it had been in 20 years. Split and damaged ends were a thing of the past. Plus, I was saving money to boot. But the real surprise was the bizarre attention my gray hair began to draw.

The first time it happened I was shopping at the local supermarket and noticed the checker gawking at me. Our eyes locked and she apologized for staring. “I just love the color of your hair, it’s really beautiful,” she said.

I was speechless. Had this woman actually complimented me on my gray hair? Was she joking? I looked around for a hidden camera but found none. After picking my jaw up off the counter, I thanked the checker and bolted for the parking lot. This would be the first of many such encounters.

Women of all ages from 17 to 70 approached me with questions about my hair. These ranged from the complimentary “Your hair is beautiful!” to the intrusive “How old are you, anyway?” These women felt free to discuss my hair the way they might the weather or current events. It was a free-for-all.

Standing in line at Starbuck’s I’d catch the curious stare of a Barista. While making a bank deposit I’d note the questioning look on the teller’s face, knowing the inevitable questions that were to follow.

I’ve come to accept the scrutiny, although some people can take things a little too far. Last summer at the Clark County Fair. My family was gathered at a picnic table, inhaling elephant ears and hot dogs, when a stranger pointed her camera at me and began snapping like the paparazzi. I was caught off guard, my mouth full of hot dog, remnants of mustard clinging to my chin.

Rushing toward me the woman apologized. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude but I want to show your picture to my hairdresser, so she can do that for me,” she said gesturing to my unkempt Tilt-a-Whirl hairdo.
I gulped down my hot dog and pasted on a smile as my paparazzi friend snapped a few extra shots before scurrying down the midway. My husband grinned and told me that I was the J-Lo of gray hair.

One of the stranger incidents occurred at the local cineplex. My husband and I had just settled into our seats when a hand clamped down on my shoulder and I turned to find myself staring into the face of an attractive blond woman, roughly 50ish. From the crazy gleam in her eye and the death grip she had on my shoulder, I got the impression she might be a little unhinged.

“I have one question,” she said, “Is that your natural hair color?” I quickly nodded hoping she’d release her grasp or at least not Mace me. Still gripping my shoulder she rocked back in her seat and rolled her eyes skyward. I began scanning the exits in case my husband and I had to make a break for it.

“Bitch,” she whispered in my ear as she released my shoulder and exited the row. I didn’t take it to heart, though, I knew she meant it in that Ya-Ya Sisterhood kind of way. At least I think that’s the way she meant it. Celebrity hair has its price.

The nicest compliment I ever received about my gray hair came from my three-year-old son. “Mommy, you look like you’ve got metal hair,” he announced with wonder as he wound his chubby fingers through my silver strands. From that day on my boys dubbed me “Metal Head Mom.”

I’m still approached by wannabes and critics regarding my hair. I’ve been called “brave” “beautiful” and “crazy”. But the only people whose opinions matter to me are those of my husband and three sons. Thankfully, they love me no matter what color my hair is.

It’s a bit of a dubious honor to be part of this “natural” revolution. I suppose it’s my role to be supportive and try to point the would-be converts toward salvation. “Get off the bottle and embrace your inner beauty!” I preach. And when the bleached and baffled approach me with those now familiar questions, I always try to answer gra-ciously.