from Wendy Lyn Watson's Mysteries a la Mode
Unlike my cousin Tally, I have a strong sense of personal style. I keep up with the trends, but I always put a distinctly "Bree" spin on them. Even in the early 90s, I found a way to add some bombshell to the grunge: I just tied my flannel shirts under my bosom, unbuttoned my henleys to show a little cleavage, and wore them with a cute denim mini instead of those shapeless jeans everyone else picked. Ick.
The heart of my look, of course, is my hair. The good Lord blessed me with a full mane of bright red hair. Not auburn or strawberry blonde, but stop-light, cherry-on-top, capital R-E-D, red. Once, I heard some mousy blonde call it "hussy hair." I just smiled.
|Sketch of Bree by Alyssa Renae White|
Of course, that first gray was just the beginning. They multiplied like bunnies on Viagra.
So I found myself in a bit of a pickle. I used to smirk when I'd see women with platinum or ruby hair and roots the color of week-old cow pies. But, me? Go gray? No way in holy heck.
What could I do? I slapped a pair of Jackie-O sunglasses on my face and a ball cap on my head ... then I hightailed it to the drug store in Possum Point (about 20 miles down the road) to pick up a box of Berry Blitz hair dye.
My daughter, apple of my eye and fruit of my loins, declared me "vain." I pointed out that she could start judging me the minute she had a credit score, a car payment, and stretch marks from birthing a smart aleck child.
But part of me thought maybe she had a point. Should I wear my gray hair with pride? A sign that I've lived hard and made it through? Or is it o.k. to indulge in a little chemical sleight of hand?