img_20110207_081252Our family goes gray late, and so I haven’t yet thought seriously about coloring my hair. I have maybe eight or 10 visible grays, not enough to do anything about, if that’s what I decide to do. Oh, who am I kidding? I will totally color my hair when he time comes. I can already tell I won’t have the beautiful silver grays so much as the pale wiry yellowish grays that defy a flat iron.

My girls (who are 7) have been pestering me to put a streak in their hair for years now. Their little friend has had one (pink, then green) since pre-K, and honestly, I didn’t see a reason to say no. It’s hair, not a tattoo. It can and will be undone with the passage of time. I’m not one of those people who believes dying your hair an unconventional color is a like gateway drug to satanic worship. And I didn’t like spraying that toxic temporary stuff we used every so often. So with their dad’s OK, I took them over to Supercuts this weekend. The results, above. They are thrilled.

I did notice the complete lack of desire on my part to dabble, which is not surprising. I’ve never felt the urge to before, and at 43, none was forthcoming. The girls didn’t even ask what color I wanted to try, and neither did the stylists. Not that long ago, I might have found that mildly offensive, as in, What, I’m so obviously Formerly that fuschia bangs are not an option for me? Now, not even a pang. That’s probably more telling than anything having to do with hair.

Yep. Officially over myself.