Hair Today…

You know I'm not easily offended. Mostly I think people who say mean things made a mistake, used a wrong word or aren't especially good at expressing themselves. Sometimes someone being insensitive is more about you being over-sensitive. I'm a benefit-of-the-doubt kinda person. I try to hear what people mean rather than what they say.

But, then occasionally you hear something that you know you should ignore but it just rubs that raw insecure little bit in your psyche and BAM! you're obsessing before you know it.

An elderly woman (84) I was talking to on Sunday asked me if Small Son was my grandchild.

Oh. My. Good. Golly. Gosh!

I'm 41! And although technically, when I had him at age 36, I suppose I was old enough to be a Granny, I'm still young enough to bear children. If I wanted to. Which I don't. But if I did, I could. Now I realise that there are a lot of real Grandmothers out there who will be miffed at my outrage but I can't help it. If someone thinks you're a Granny - what they're really saying is that you look old enough to be one.

It's my hair see. I'm blighted by my Celtic genes. We don't seem to able to hang on to our pigmentation. Hence we freckle instead of tan and we go grey very young in life. (Not all Celts do this - but a higher proportion than other ethnic groups). I found my first grey hair when I was 14 around the same time as I hit puberty. Ah the irony of that really socks it to me!

By the time I was 23 I'd started to colour my hair. I only had a minor sprinkling at that time - but enough for people to notice and make comments. The I had Big Son aged 28 and suddenly I had a streak. Aged 30 I had Daughter and the whiteness spread even further. I tried going blonde for a while but I just didn't recognise the pasty-faced individual with the yellow hair looking back at me from the mirror. After a year or two I went back to my more natural looking reddy-brown. When, at age 36, Small Son came along, it was as though the last of the melanin reserves were wiped out and I resigned myself to colouring my hair every three weeks until my chronological age caught up with my hair age and I'm finally able to ditch it. Yes every three weeks. Because even though I have no colour in my hair - it is very thick and tremendously fast-growing.

At the weekend it was looking particularly bad. Since moving here I haven't had a haircut. It takes me ages to find a hairdresser that'll be able to handle my bonce. It's not an easy head to tame. So I put it off - and off - and off, until I looked like I was wearing a haystack wig instead of having hair. With white roots.

It really was an awful mess. But to think someone thought I was a Granny. Geez Louise - something had to be done.

So I found a hairdresser, took the plunge and had it all chopped off. Tonight I fill in the blanks and return it to a natural-looking auburn. My next door neighbour saw it first and she kindly told me that it looked great - apparently it took years off me! (The pit of my tummy ached at the thought that years needed to be taken off me). But I cheered up. I went to get Small Son from Pre-school.

"Hey Honey did you have a good morning?"

"Yes! Yes! Mama you did cutted all you hair."

"I did. Do you like it?"

"Yes! Yes! Now you are a man!"

Good Grief! From granny to a bloke! And it didn't stop there. Daughter said I looked like Anne Robinson. (She of The Weakest Link). Can a girl catch a break?

Then Hubby came home and smiled at me and told me I looked great and it really suited me. I knew there was a reason I love him so much. He's just lovely.

I just saw the beginning of the last post where I claimed "I'm all about the natural - me." Well obviously - I'm more about looking natural and using any ol' fake means to achieve it! I'll put a photo up soon.