I should have started the unveiling of my hair when I first arrived in England from America in June.
There was no-one around who knew me, or paid attention to what I did with my hair. A couple of years ago when I cut it from my waist to chin none of my British family noticed, not even the eagle eyed nephews!
But for some reason it took me six months to come to the conclusion that I really did not want to be colouring my hair any more! It may have also had something to do with some bad press I’d been reading about what dyeing one’s hair can do to one’s brain.
Living among the grey hairs, and there are a lot of them around, I notice some are young some are old. All of them, from behind are pensioners to me. I admit, I stereotype them despite the fact that I started losing colour at twenty and my youngest just found her first grey hair this morning. So now I am living a self challenge, I want to prove, by going au naturel, that stereotypes are not always predictable.
I have been L’Oreal free for 114 days now.
My journey has been interesting, expensive and not entirely successful…yet!
I went from this,
in about four weeks. Can you see the glare bouncing off the wall behind me?
While taking recommendations on what to do I manipulated my hair with combs and hairbands to disguise the fact that underneath my dark tresses lay a white re-growth.
I wore a hat while consulting various hair dressers who all told me to,
“Grow it out!”
I had a better method on its way from Texas in the mail but it hadn’t arrived yet.
In the meantime my friend upstairs gave me the name of a reputable hair colourist near Bond Street, pricey but good. I decided to take her advice and seek professional help this time!
But you’ve read about my experience here and this is the result of that little shindig,
Do you notice any difference?
“Grow it out and then come back,” was their advice.
“But can’t you take the white and streak it in with my hair to give it an overall brighter colour?”
Their answer was,
“If we did what you’re asking us to do you’d end up carrying your hair out of here in a bag!”
It was time to use my home method and I achieved a dazzling, auburn-with-skunk, look,
I began to feel like the Emperor in his new clothes. He could see what he really looked like yet everyone else was admiring his new, invisible to him, suit of finest spun gear!
My hairdresser friend put in a platinum blonde which cut the “red,” that I insisted on calling it, and with some help from a brilliant temporary blonde, a blue shampoo, the sun and another month of regrowth I am now walking around like this,
which is a bit better while I continue growing it out and taking advice.
There is a lovely lady on the High Street, my “go to” place in case of emergencies, who streaked my youngest daughter’s hair beautifully.
“In a month,” she told me, “I’ll give you a bleach bath,”
whatever that is, but I can imagine,
“and add some lowlights so you’ll never even notice the re-growth.”
The consolation in all of this is, if I start to feel old, especially when I return to trendy, ‘young is beautiful,’ Texas, and my blue scalp starts to show through, it’ll take all of an hour to undo what it will have taken me close to a year to achieve.
Looking at my most recent photo,
and remembering I’m not finished yet, I’ve decided that I haven’t aged a moment!
“Lower your head again,” said hubs on our walk yesterday.
“Darn, it is white!”
Someone pass me the L’Oreal!