I wrote a blog on Wednesday and posted it like I always do. All was well until it wasn’t. I know several people were able to read it, but, at some point, the link was no longer working. I blame Trump. (Sorry. Not Sorry. I just had to throw that in there.) Anyway, after several concerned texts and emails, I opted to give the cliff notes of that particular blog.
My spouse happened to notice a change in me. Drastic. Dramatic. It was pretty traumatic. He notice my overabundance of gray hair. To be fair, I was scheduled in a few weeks to get it colored, but my hair had taken on a life of its own. My normal fun, bright locks were tarnished by the shit brown follicles sprinkled with gray. Horrific. I immediately dialed 911. Not really. My 911 was to my long-time friend and hairstylist. She knows my crazy. My panic eased as she shared she could get me in and that she did. Yesterday, I was transformed. My ugly gray was erased by beautiful blond highlights.
Vain? Yes. I claim that. I support those who decide to go completely gray. That is your choice. Me? No. I know aging is my current trend, but I do have conditions. One of them being, I don’t want to look older than I am. My mother left me with really great genetics. If COVID had not happened, I truly believe she would have continued to color her hair until her last breath. I am my mother’s daughter and appreciate that while I am 57, I don’t look that age.
Aging is a privilege. I just want to look good doing it.
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