I am from the old school of haircoloring; I admit it. I grew up in the time when no woman would admit she colored her hair, when "only her hairdresser knew for sure." I have always thought that the determinant of a good coloring job was that it looked natural. Maybe you were not born with little golden highlights peeking out demurely from under your brown tresses, but you could have been. Who knows? The biggest compliment I could pay someone recently emerged from the salon is "It looks so natural."
I realize times have changed. I go to church with a young woman who changes her hair color almost weekly, just for fun. I know a beautiful Iranian woman with 2 inches of nearly black roots that somehow fade into platinum blonde. She looks great, but she certainly does not look "real." She is a hair stylist by profession and obviously enjoys playing with the effects – she frequently has little touches of pink or green around her face. She looks like a cross between a china doll and Marilyn Monroe.
She recently moved to Malaysia and is in the process of getting a business license and setting up a salon here. She misses her work and her culture – a feeling I can relate to. She needs friends to encourage her in her new walk with Jesus. Her English is halting but really amazing for the short time she has been studying. She offered to do my hair and we talked in hesitant words about color, highlights, length, layers. I really thought she understood the word "subtle," I thought the term "highlights" was kind of a universal term in the hair stylist's lexicon, but maybe not.
Yesterday she spent 6 hours at my house, bending earnestly over my dark brown hair with scissors, razor comb, and brushes. She worked in the living room where there is no mirror, which was fine with me. I have always hated those huge mirrors in salons where you are forced to see yourself at your worst before you can enjoy yourself at your best – if all goes well. She mixed several potions, and there were numerous times of checking color, waiting another 20 minutes, then 20 more. She did give me a mirror to see the base color, which was a little lighter than I'd hoped for – but not too bad. There was not too much hair on the floor. I relaxed. Then she covered my head with a huge blue rubber cap through which she pulled dozens of strands of hair. This part was kind of fun. My children kept coming in and laughing and even snapped a picture or two, but it seemed to take a very long time. She kept checking strands and saying, " Longer", and I began to feel uneasy about what was happening up there. When my 10 year old gasped "It looks like spaghetti!" I felt decidedly queasy, but my friend just laughed and agreed, - "Yes, spaghetti!" in her charming Persian accent.
Finally it was done – all the rinsing, blow drying, scrunching with gel and pulling little strands of hair this way and that. She was obviously pleased with her work – kept exclaiming how lovely it was, and led me to the mirror. I had steeled myself – I always hate a new haircut and was ready for the initial shock, but this was unlike anything I've experienced before. The crown of my head was platinum blond – all the way to the roots – a solid block of shimmering yellow, right down to my decidedly brunette complexion. Farther down there was a lot of dark hair left under the spaghetti strands, but the colors made no attempt to blend. This was not the "natural" highlights I had envisioned, this was a look that made no pretense of being homegrown – the kind of look that says. "Look at the cool things you can do with your hair!"
My son grimaced sympathetically , telegraphing in a look that he felt sorry for me but he would not be seen with me in the near future just the same. My little girls just gaped, and my teenaged daughters smiled gamely and said something like, "Wow" before making themselves scarce so they would not have to comment further. My husband, a serious devotee of the natural look, is in the US for another week, so he hasn't said anything yet.
I slept on it, and got up this morning thinking it would not be so shocking, but it was. Neither the cut nor the color look anything like me, or like any look I have ever aspired to. I decided this morning that I could do a pretty good imitation of a perky talk show host- but I can't do me. What to do? I considered adopting the tudung – the Muslim headscarf – for the next few months. Muslim women are not allowed to show any hair at all and have a tight little band that goes across the forehead to catch any stray blond wisps, but somehow that seems a more unnatural look for me than even platinum blond. I could have it colored again, but I would risk hurting my new friend's feelings, and I really don't want to do that this early in our friendship.
This past Wednesday was Ash Wednesday. Raised as a Baptist, I have never observed Lent, though I have always wished I were a Catholic during this season of the year. I have never known how to "do" Lent –all I could think of to give up was the traditional chocolate (which I've pretty much given up for my health anyway!) or what my Catholic friends are giving up this year –which seemed like kind of a copy cat sacrifice. This week I prayed that God would show me something I might give up for the season . I think He has. I think maybe I need to give up my vanity - to go to church this morning and lie to my sweet friend who so recently escaped the tyranny of Iran and found freedom in trusting Jesus. I think for sake of the cross I need to forget about who I want to be and what I want to look like and embrace the gift she gave me in my oddly colored hair. I think when I catch sight of my bright blond crown in a mirror or window I need to remember that my life is not about pleasing myself, any more than my Lord's life was - and also that my hair will grow in time.
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