It's About Time (I Think)

The only time I've had my hair chemically treated was at age 19 when I got red highlights. Since then, Jeff has begged me to never color my hair again. To his defense, the results were not stellar.

I am notoriously cheap. I don't like spending too much money on anything, and hair color seemed a frivolous expense for many, many years.

I am ultra low-maintenance in my adulthood. I literally wash my hair, comb it, and go most days. Perhaps I spent so much time on my hair and make-up as a teen that I've lost interest as an adult. Hair color seems the definition of high maintenance and will up the amount of times a year I visit a salon, which currently is about 2. Plus, I've kind of embraced the granola thing. (Cue Tashmica's laughter).

But....
I turned 35 in October. As I look in the mirror, I notice that this granola look isn't doing me any favors. Not to mention that I live in a community of Italian Americans in New York: granola is not a legitimate fashion statement. They look at me and in their New York Italian American accent I hear them thinking, "Ya know honey, lemme give ya the name of this girl - she's fabulous..." Tonight I am visiting my neighbor's Italian American stylist who, when I met her at my neighbor's BBQ/clam bake exclaimed, "Color is my specialty!"

My thought is that I will go pretty short and a shade lighter. Maybe I won't. I announced my plan to Jeff and immediately he started begging me to drop the color part, insisting that I'm not even grey yet. I believe he is not being truthful, and is only afraid of red stripes on a 35 year old mother of a middle schooler who until now has spent hundreds of dollars less per year on her appearance than any other woman he knows. I smiled at him, informed him the party was over: age 35 negates all other treaties about hair agreed upon in the past. He looked really sad.

Perhaps this is silly. Perhaps I'll regret it. But I'm hoping afterward I'll feel good about it, a little more put together. I meet ALOT of people now, and many are professional colleagues of Jeff. Granola made sense as a grad school wife. But as a grad school wife I didn't have to throw holiday parties at my house for the entire department (yep, I've agreed to that) or attend wine-and-cheese parties. Oh, let's admit that these dominoes started falling months ago, and this one was next in line. Somewhere, Jeff is clutching his wallet and choking back real tears.

Mostly, I want a fun change.

I think.