A fond memory of my youth is watching my Mom dye her hair. I’d sit in the hallway and watch her in the bathroom preparing the mixture as if it were a very solemn ceremony. She’d let me peel the plastic gloves off of the instruction sheet.

I’d sit in the hallway because hair dye REALLY stunk.

So she’d dye her hair, wrap it in a beat up old towel (either the ripped gold one or the bleached out pink one) for the required time, and I’d be sure to be present for the after-rinse unveiling. Sometimes she’d be pleased with the result. Sometimes she’d let out a small whimper.

But six weeks later, we’d be there again.

I’m no stranger to dying my hair, as the hostess photos can attest to. My God…the highlights. (small whimper) Lately, I’m trying to get it all one color, preferably the one I THINK I’d have if I had never started dying my hair in the first place. Quite a Sisyphean task. But more often than not, I consider going darker again…that golden brown I had last January.

I bought the above towel about six years ago, specifically for the hair dye process. The bleached out words say “Good Hair Day” which is cracks me up every time. As I was folding laundry tonight I noticed that the various stains on the towel tell a neat story of the colors I’ve tried and the colors that aren’t there because I was too chicken to follow through with the idea (black, black, and black.)

And maybe it’s because Mother’s Day just passed, leaving me (as it does every year) with the acute realization of what’s missing in this abundant life I live. But in the back of my brain…I’d like to think that someday I’ll have a daughter who’ll laugh with me at this beat up towel as I share my own tales of hair dye derring-do.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, May 14th, 2008 at 8:15 am and is filed under Family/Friends, General, Play. Both comments and pings are currently closed.
Tags: hair