NATURAL
The teens are a great time for finding out about yourself, partying, meeting the opposite sex and of course exams. Not so nice. I had a little of that but it was the sixties – “Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses”. “Judy in Disguise – with glasses.”
And the name calling, Specky, Specky four eyes! Very hurtful. Unfortunately I was one of those glasses girls. Milk bottle thick. No streamline lenses or contacts then. I really didn’t attract many handsome fellows but the odd one that I did was pretty nice My confidence was at an all-time low and perhaps that’s what instigated the depression at such an early age.
I suffered from OCD very badly and underwent a lot of stress and worry over nothing really. It affected most of my life, even now I have to be careful not to fall into that black hole again. But at that time I was fifteen and suffering. I didn’t tell anyone as they would have thought I was crazy, which I suppose I was in a way. The result of that intense pressure on me was unfortunately my hair started to go grey. I t was jet black so the shiny strands showed through very easily. A teenager with greying hair was not going to be very popular with the male population, especially when you include the glasses.
For a while it wasn’t very noticeable and I remembered the old maxim: “never pluck out a grey hair or a lot more will appear.” I didn’t pull any out. Well, maybe just one or two!
For a time I could live with it. But soon my thoughts turned to colours and dyes. Now Folks , in the sixties hair colourants were not the same as now. No tidy squeezy tubes. No mess, no hassle. Squeeze on, leave for a few minutes, rinse off! Result! Nice shiny hair the colour you’ve always wanted to be. No!
Mikx together powder and cream, layer on , making sure all strands covered and wait for half an hour. I coloured the bathroom walls, sink, a lot of towels, my hands and even some of the tiled floor. Then when I went outside in the rain I resembled Dracula’s daughter, black streaks running down my face, frightening all the kiddies and the adults too probably.. I was a disaster and to cap it all, because my hair had been jet black, my legs were too, shaving every day. I was the hairiest female in Andersonstown Park West. I was a freak. I should join a circus. No hope had I of a beau. Perhaps I could become a nun or join the Foreign Legion. My despair increased the depression and I spent a lot of time in my room, reading and listening to Elvis.
But miracles sure do happen. I was sixteen and three of my friends decided to rent a house in Omeath, lying to our families.
“ I’m staying in Phyllis house.”
“I’m staying in Anne’s house.” Etc.,
To cut a long story short that’s where I met my husband, Seamus. He didn’t seem to care about my faults. Well, maybe that’s because I didn’t tell him. We were married at nineteen, emigrated to Australia and returned home with a brand new baby boy for the Grandparents. The colouring continued in Australia and at home. My poor Hubbie. Ever suffering. Having to listen to my moans and groans about my barnet. Trying to comfort me, stating he didn’t care what colour my hair was. He loved me anyway. Anyway! Hmmm! Anyway??? That’s not good enough! It should have been something like:
Oh my Darling, I love your grey hair> You wouldn’t be you without it. You’re unique!!” Something like that anyway.
So I decided after so many botched attempts at hair colouring and having to paint the bathroom 140 thousand times, I would splash out and make an appointment with a real, professional hairdresser. Money no object. Well, four kids, a mortgage and a husband it really is. But I was desperate. I came out of that salon more depressed than I went in. Not just about the price of the treatment but the statement issued to me by the coiffeur.
“Now Phyllis, your hair really is going very grey. About 60 or 70 per cent. The black is too harsh now. Too false looking. You need to go lighter.”
What! Lighter!” I was born dark, grew into my teens dark and now she was trying to turn me into Madonna or Marilyn Monroe. Yeah right. More like a blond Lassie. More tears on my poor husband’s shoulder. I think he was getting pissed off. He might just have loved me for the raven haired beauty that I never was. So as Buck’s Fizz once said:
“Making my mind up!”
I was going natural. Brave woman. Desperate woman more like.
It was hard at first. Thought people were staring at me and my changing appearance. Well, I’d never been stared at before so that was a bonus. But I felt free. I had been chained to those boxes of dye nearly my whole life. No more. Suddenly I began to see other people, some younger than me, with greying locks without shame. They looked amazing. I began to get compliments I never expected and envy even. I was on a high and my loving husband got peace.
Now I’m 73 with a head of pure white hair, all natural and I love it. Proud of it. I was called The Silver Fox in work.
I feel a little sorry for those who have to fork out reams of money to cover their grey locks. So ladies and Gentlemen grow old gracefully and enjoy it. I know men seem to improve with age like an expensive wine but women do too. So let it all out! Well, maybe not all. Just the hair bit. No more messy bathrooms, or expensive treatments. Au Naturelle ladies! It’s a real weight off my mind or my bonce I should say and my husband stayed with me.
Naturelle! Au Naturelle! Go to a nudist beach. I did! But that’s another story for another TenX9!!