I've been going gray since I was in my mid teens, probably 16 or so. The lady that used to cut my hair in the Northridge shopping center in Salinas, CA (I can't remember her name but she had a punk rock look and clientele and didn't scoff when I wanted to look like a member of the Misfits; devilock and all) once pulled out a stark white horse hair from my scalp and presented it to me as if it were some sort of incriminating evidence. My dad just laughed. His head has been snowy white since I was a lil' kid, so I knew the hereditary inset of going gray early was approaching.
This didn't really hit me until probably the early years in San Francisco, let's say mid to late 90's. That's when the temples started to show and my “Bonnie Raitt” crept in; that perfect stream of silver waterfalling down the forelock of my hair making me resemble the bluesy songstress, or even the lead singer of the Damned which is what I was going for to entice comely goth ladies to come and stroke it and lure them back to my lair, a.k.a, my crappy room on 4th Ave. and Geary. It didn't work. Now I guess you could say I have a perfect “Stacy London” but I hear her's is fake so let's just scratch that one shall we?
Thing is, I never really minded the gray. In fact, I always kind of liked it. But, recently, I've been seeing a LOT of the gray starting to come in. Maybe it's because I turn 39 this year, which means next December I will be (gulp) 40. That's a big turning point in one's life, or so I've been told. Not that I am dreading it or even freaking out over it (well maybe just a little) it's just that age has such a huge burden and stigma attached to it. As a child of the 70s, age 40 always meant single ladies popping pills, mid life crisis', large bushy mustaches, convertibles and chasing girls half your age. It freaked me out. In this 21st century, 40 is but a short jaunt to that midway point in life and, let me tell you, life isn't short, it's pretty long so I'm looking forward to being an old curmudgeon throwing bricks at passing cars and whacking “whippersnappers” in the knees with my cane. It's my right as an old cruster to do so.
But I can live without the bushy mustache. For now.
Anyway, She-Ra and I were at the store recently, buying supplies for dinner and admiring the Fall and Halloween stuff being put on shelves. Earlier that day, after a shower, I looked in the mirror to not just see gray hairs but white. That got me to thinkin'. “Here it comes,” I accepted. “No way of stopping it now.”
That became a topic of conversation all night long. I'm sure She-Ra became weary of me going on about becoming an “old man” and the fact that I will look like Steve Martin in just a few short years. Well, from the hairline up.
“Here,” she said handing over a box with some dudes face on it. “Why don't you give this a whirl.”
It was a hair dye package. “Dark Chestnut Brown – Gray” it said on the box next to that male models smug face. Oh man, I thought, here it is. The first step into a larger, stranger and mothball scented world. After weighing the options and the pros and cons, I figured what the heck and tossed the $10 box of “mature man style” hair dye into the cart. When the lady rang it up, I felt just as embarrassed as when the first time I purchased condoms many moons ago. Perhaps buying gray-away will be how I eventually became comfortable with buying the rubbers. Grab a big box of the stuff, slam it on the counter and shout “Ring 'er up! Got a big weekend ahead of me.” Still, I turned a little red and rolled my eyes when the digital readout announced < Product: Touch of Gray 10.00 > Oh man.
The box sat in the bathroom for over two weeks. Nestled between the Calvin and Hobbes books and some moisturizer, that hair dye box sat there with me and mocked my insecurity and hair. Many a day I would ponder and study the instructions, only to put it back and give a haughty “pffft” before flushing and forgetting it.
Then, a strange thing happened. I woke up this morning and said “Today is the day! Today I will swallow my pride and put some gray hair cover up on my head! It is written! So shall it be done!” Then I tried to part the bath water but that didn't work. So without further adieu, I opened the box and got out the contents.
There was a small tube of the stuff and I was supposed to use the whole thing. Good, because I have a ton of hair and it may take more than one squeezy bottle of dye muck to tame the wild white streams in the locks. There was also a sort of comb thingy that attaches to the squeezy bottle with lil' holes in it so the goo can come out as you brush it through.
There was also some plastic gloves. This might have freaked me out but since my time of being a pizza chef, I use gloves all the time. Before hand, those things always made me feel like some kind of odd doctor about to perform some back alley procedure. Now, eh...feels like home.
After said comb is attached and required gloves are on, it was time to begin the process. I lifted the tube and comb to my hair, squeezed oh-so gently and began to rake it though the brambly trusses of my quaff. For real, I haven't thoroughly “combed” my hair in quite some time; probably since my last hair appointment, which was months ago. My style, my thickness of hair, does not require the constant care and threat of comb or brush. Shampoo, condition, rinse, done! Don't even own a hair dryer thanks. Let ol' Ma Nature take care of that noise.
So I'm combing and I'm squeezing and I'm working through the knots and I'm trying to get the glop evenly distributed, which, of course, causes a few drops to fall on the sink. When first they fall, the drops of the dye are a light amber, but as the oxygen hits, that tawny hue turns to a dense black and when I was done I tried to desperately get the stains out. Kinda didn't work. Not that our cozy water closet isn't already speckled with color from She-Ra's many and frequent dye jobs she gives herself. The sink is just the beginning – there's stains on the mirror, floor and wall that leave a trail of tonsorial permutation. Oh yeah, now it's daddy's turn!
When I look in the mirror I find myself to resemble a slick haired, greasy mob caricature from some bad TV show. So in my worst Jersey accent I start yelling “Hey baby! Fah-ged-a-boud-it! Look at my pinky ring and gold chain! I like convertibles and discos! My penis is very small!”
The instructions said to let it set for a few minutes, so I went into the living room, checked e-mail and did some dopey Facebook thing where I list the 5 things I hate to eat. Olives and that rotten durian fruit were at the top of the list, as were kneecaps, broken glass and shoes. I mean, hey, I don't wanna eat that stuff. Afterwards I hopped in the shower and watched the tub turn a murky brownish-gray haze before twisting its way down the drain.
When I got out I didn't notice anything at first. So I dried off and saw that there was no splotches on the towel. Maybe this stuff is crap. Perhaps it's just a ploy to get dopes like me, insecure and trying to dig their fingernails into what remains of their youth, by making them buy a promise that never comes through. They got my ten bucks and now they have my dignity too. Oh well, I shrugged, I gave it a try.
Then, after the mop had dried and I gave it some time, I was pleased to find that the shocking drifts of white I had grown accustomed to were gone. Wow, alright. I kinda looked like my old self again. Still though, the perfect silver streak down the front had survived, which was a good thing. I like that, always have. So when I meet Stacy London I can go up to her and say “Yeah, I know what not to wear. A fake white streak in your hair beyotch. Take that. Oh yeah, and those shoes are hideous.”
So what have I learned from this experience? Absolutely nothing. I'm growing old, we all are, it's inevitable and that's okay because that's all part and parcel of the great Plan. I can't stop it, you can't stop it, but we can, for a small price, quiet it down a bit. And as for 40? Bring it on sucka! At least I have hair and don't need the mustache, car and barely legal chick to make up for my waning libido and hairline. Those things are doing just fine thank you.
Now, to work on this belly of mine. That's a whole other conquest upon the horizon...
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