Transitioning to Grey: A Colorist Dilemma

When I was 16, we had our family Christmas at my oldest brother's house.  At dinner, over turkey and dressing and salad and monkey bread, my oldest sister reached across the table and with great glee plucked a white wirey hair from my head!  Yes, 16.  Christmas dinner!  I blame her for the daunting numbers of white hairs I now see along my temples, arching above my forehead, and down my part, no matter where I place it.  It is her fault.   As far back as I can remember, my mom had grey hair.  She had always said her hair was grey because she pulled the first one out and so more grew in to replace that one.  Old wives' tale? Perhaps.  Still, she was always grey.  So, I shall stick with the story that my sister, that fateful Christmas afternoon when I was still in my teens, doomed me to an early onslaught of grey hairs feverishly growing in to replace that ONE! 

Just this month, merely a few months short of three decades later, I'm investigating hanging up my rainbow of colors to see what my un-painted locks may look like.  I really don't know.  I've had glimpses during my pregnancies. Of course, I am insane while I am pregnant (in all the good ways one can be insane) and big chunks of memory left with each placenta, I'm convinced.  So I don't remember.  Really.  I know there are photographs, but I had long hair during both pregnancies.  I ponied and french braided a lot.   Plus, my first pregnancy was a decade ago -- although I do remember the first time I left Lia sleeping sweetly on her daddy's chest as he watch football was to steal away for a cut and color (and probably a pedicure).  My last pregnancy was five years ago.  So, even if I could find a photo that didn't have my roots conveniently cropped out of the picture, five years is a long time.  Especially for hair after forty.  

Last weekend I read about the options: transitioning. going cold turkey. chopping it all off.   I called my sister.  Not the evil hair plucking one that caused this problem in the first place but the other one. My younger, older sister.  She still celebrates anniversaries of her 39th, so I've been 'older' for quite a while now.  I told her my thoughts about going grey.  In a very supportive, loving manner, that only a sister could master, she said.  Oh, no. No.  You are kidding, right?   

Well, enough of seeking support with live people.  Back to the internet.  Where all wisdom, support and answers can be found.  When transitioning, all articles concurred that a consultation with a colorist versed in going grey was where to start. 

For the last few years, I've given up salon color and have been doing my own at home with Garnier.  Inexpensive, easy, good color.  I could do it after the girls were in bed at the first sign of roots, or lack luster, or boredom.  I could go up or down a shade or two or golder or asher with the seasons.  But, alas, when you do your own hair, you do not have a colorist to consult.  I tried, though, but the gal in the mirror knew nothing, zip, zilch, zero, about transitioning to grey. In fact, she sounded about as supportive as my sister on the subject.  I looked around, called around, talked around, chatted up a stranger at the grocery.  There was not a colorist to be found, around here, that seemed to think going grey was even an option.  So, I went to someone that worked with the person that colored my hair years ago (she does not live here any more, although I doubt she would think going grey was an option either) -- and told her that I was going to transition to grey.  That it was not up for discussion.  That it was happening and I needed her to give me highlights.  Not color.  And no, I didn't want a typical highlight job.  We discussed, at length, the fact that I did not want heavy highlights, that I only wanted enough to blend so the roots didn't look so obvious right now, to give them a chance to grow out without me losing my willpower.   When I was convinced she would listen to my wishes -- 

Bring on the bleach!  Viola!  

See the really white parts? They do match my roots.  I like it. But, as I go cooler (as they say): Any thoughts? Ideas? Suggestions? Knit hats? Bright lipsticks you no longer need?  The articles suggested brighter makeup and clothes [allegedly to make up for the lack of warmth... Hmmm, does that mean I'll be more of a cold-hearted witch?  Perhaps, if someone mistakes me for a warm-hearted granny.]  My theory is that wearing peacock bright colors on my body and face will disorient people and they will simply be dazed, if not totally bedazzled.  More likely, if that person is like me, it will simply give the observer somthing to make fun of other than, or in addition to, my hair].  Frequent haircuts were also recommended.  Something about cutting off more of the colored hair that doesn't match the grey.  [Because I suppose if you have two inches of roots that are white and four inches of colored hair instead of five or six or seven, it is less obvious?  I don't know about this one.  Maybe it psychologically helps... if you whack it all of, viola, you are 50% grown out instead of 20?  I'll probably get haircuts often, just so I feel like I'm doing something.]  The articles also seemed to all say "grey can be aging" -- Really? I mean, I always automatically think: my look how young that old person looks!  Don't you?  Well, I need you to get prepared.  Start working on your compliments now.  In fact, you can send them now, that way I can grow acustom to them and will have time to work on accepting all of them graciously.

Need to work on keeping my warmth somehow! 

Aging schmadging!  Grey here I come! Or rather, come on grey, I'm waiting!

Special Needs: A Disclaimer

I have been known (i.e. told by therapists and doctors) that I use humor to mask.  In reality, I use every tool in my toolbox to mask.  Masking pain, helps keep my pain at bay, or at least partially hidden.  Masking vulnerability, helps me deny that vulnerability exists, or at least keeps me from breaking down in front of strangers or at work.  Masking weakness --and being weak when I am suppose to be strong, sucks-- is sometimes the only thing I can do to prevent crumbling into chunks on the floor.  Besides, I do look really, really good in masks. 

My life has been touched by what some people in the world call special needs. I do not like the term special needs.  I have heard it too many times.  As terms go: I think it is lame; I think it is a cop out; and, I think it sucks.

What my life has really been touched by are my children.   Do the circumstances that my children live with touch me?  Oh my yes.  Have they change me?  There is no doubt.  Has that change been good?  Would I have preferred my life to have not been so touched, changed?  Well, that would then change who my children are and who they will be -- so I must say no.  On the other hand, if you had a choice to remove any pain, no matter how slight, from your loved one's life, what would you choose?  What would you sometimes, perhaps secretly, choose?

I have felt pain and heartache and hatred and love that I never thought I would have.  I am, however,  lucky beyond all measure, blessed beyond all belief, and fortunate enough to have witnessed, and continued to witness, life's miracles.

Writing about my life and, perhaps, the lives of others that I have been glimpsed, I will talk about things in a way that will offend many.   I will use bad humor, bad language and bad writing to express what is truly inexpressible.

I know there are people in this world that possess, exert and show more strength and love and courage and patience and grace in a flash of a moment as they deal with, or celebrate, what the world might perceive to be the smallest thing -- such as washing hands or an eye blink response -- than I have in a month, a year, a decade, a lifetime.  I, in no way, mean to dishonor them or be disrespectful.  They deserve acceptance, appreciation, and, perhaps, awe.  Mostly, they deserve simply to remain unjudged by those walking on this earth.

So, to any one that has in any way been touched by a child or an adult with a need the world has termed special, I hope that my words do not offend you.  To the rest of you, I really do not give a flying pig's tail hair what you may think about my views on this subject.

Firsts.

I made my first leis earlier this year for Lia's first hula performance. The leis turned out pretty, right? I also made my first ti leaf skirt.  Lia was beautiful and the performance was terrific! The younger girls were adorable. The older girls and women were graceful and talented. The boys and young men were energetic and amazing! The musicians that played were fun and creative!

Waiting to go on for the Aloha Wave

You can make a lei too! I used a long needle, waxed dental floss (stronger than thread and the flowers go on easy) and lots of flowers.  It seems the picking of the flowers can be extremely hazardous, however.  I ended up with a fat lip when I was picking the flowers from the school yards (both of the girls' schools have plumeria trees growing in the play areas).  Gia was helping me pick the flowers for her sister's leis (and yes, I made one for her too).  I was holding on to a branch above my head and picking only the flowers Gia was excitedly pointing to.   Not paying enough attention to the branch whilst trying to figure out which flower was "that one mommy!  The pretty pink one!" [note: it was a pink plumeria tree, so all the blooming flowers were pink] --- cccrrraaaaaccccckkkk.  OUCH!  Fudgesicle and pop tarts! (and maybe another word or two slipped out that I won't admit uttering in front of her). 

Caveat: the branches of plumeria trees (frangipani) are not very strong.  But, if you ever break a branch and end up with a fat lip (or not) be excited because you can now start a brand new tree of your very own in an old bucket on your lanai!

Thank you to Melia for teaching hula to my girl!