I spruced up the ends with some leftover blond color after doing my daughter's hair. It's Feria - good stuff, for home color. I didn't perform any torture rituals like pulling through a cap, and there we no clips to facilitate fancy partitioning of hair like in the instructions. I just dabbed some on here and there in a very haphazard manner, waited forty minutes, and rinsed. Normal. I've done it many times. I dried it and styled it just as I normally do. Done and satisfied with my handiwork, I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. I thought to myself, "Beth and Chandra would be proud!" I'd had many years of apprenticeship by watching my former hairdressers, my unknowing tutors. I have since moved far away from them, however, and have found no suitable replacements. I've made do. I was pleased with myself. I'd done a very decent job, as usual.
Then came the abnormal part, or as Marty Feldman would say in Young Frankenstein "Abby Normal." I noticed it. What was that in my hair? Why, there's some kind of discoloration there! What the..? Is that toothpaste or something? I gently lifted a section of my lovely blond hair and stared in disbelief at what lay lurking underneath.
I am inserting a clip from the original movie Psycho here because it is so very appropriate. It is exactly what ran through my mind at that very moment.
In my head, I heard the distinctive screeching musical horror violin sounds and female high pitched horror movie screaming akin to that which is heard at approximately the 45 second mark in the clip. I looked in the mirror to see if my expression matched what was running through my mind. It didn't. I was simply staring at myself with a blank expression of confusion and my jaw hanging open. My mind raced. For a moment, I struggled to find a better explanation for what I saw. It was... it... was... gray hair!
Now let me be very clear in my description of horror here. I've had gray hairs before. Many times, in fact, have I plucked individual ones from my head without any consequence or thought. But this was not a few pluckable hairs. This was a patch, a streak! "Oh my word, this is not pluckable," I thought. I checked my expression in the mirror again. I was still staring at myself in disbelief. When did this happen? How did I just now notice this? Am I going to die soon?! But I feel so young! Nooooooooooo!!!!! Whyyyyyyyy????? Why, why, whyyyyyy?
Regaining my composure, my first reaction to my own horrified reaction was laughter. "Now that was funny!" Then I thought, "I can't wait to blog about this. Wait, who would do that? Me, that's who!" So, there you have it. You are officially an observer of the horrific or hilarious, however you perceive it, aging process of Cindy Brown, your Everyday Underwear color technician. Perhaps I'll emulate Stacy London of What Not To Wear fame and just go with it. Wait, her gray streak is actually cool. Dang it! Oh well. Welcome, silver lining. Come on in. It appears you are here to stay.