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?
With an unnamed actress suing IMDB because they disclosed her actual age, where do you stand? How far are you willing to go to trick Father Time?