Roots
I’ve been a redhead on the auburn end of the spectrum for about 6 years, I guess. Up until then, I’d been the brunette I’d been born, but the increasing emergence of gray hairs meant either I kept plucking until I had a tonsure, or I took more drastic measures and started dyeing my hair. At the time, I thought those were my only two options; I was young, and still a major stockholder in the publicly held paradigms for feminine beauty. I was never particularly fond of my personal shade of brown, which was neither chestnut nor sandy, and therefore disqualified me from starring roles in all romance novels, so I went red, in varying shades as my tastes changed or my preferred color was discontinued, forcing me to find another. The darkest one went right out the window after one of my fifth-graders asked me why my hair was purple. (You ever want the unvarnished truth, ask a 10-year-old. Hell, sometimes you don’t even have to ask.) I’ve been “Summer Berry” for a couple of years now, and liked it well enough to stock up on it every time I ran across it, lest they discontinue it, too, and leave me stuck.
Right after A passed, and for several months thereafter, the extent of my personal grooming was a shower and once through my hair with a comb. I considered it an amazing accomplishment under the circumstances; still do. But as I sifted through my life, I found I really didn’t feel like wasting much more effort on being a redhead instead of an increasingly salt-and-pepper brunette. It seems such a trivial thing, but for me, there was a moment of “I just want to be me, whoever that is. No more extra effort. No more artifice.” It wasn’t just about my hair; it was about everything. Part of that came from the reality at that time that I had no energy for extra effort. I barely had the energy for living my daily life; I was constantly exhausted and hanging on by the skin of my teeth. Part of it was that as I picked myself up, piece by piece, I found (and keep finding) there are some pieces better left on the ground as I walk on. It is better to travel light.
I’d wondered when I’d decide to quit dyeing my hair, because there’s a certain point in a woman’s life when she’s not fooling anyone anymore, and I really didn’t want to keep trying past that point. That’s not a critique of those who do; it just wasn’t what I wanted for myself. Turns out, the decision was made at a moment last summer when I looked in the mirror and for a moment didn’t recognize myself. Somehow, I knew then I was done.
But I had ten boxes of hair dye in the cabinet, and I’m well-steeped in the Midwestern sensibilities of my upbringing. I couldn’t just waste it! It’d give me a rash, to throw out something perfectly good, even if I didn’t want it anymore. So I decided I’d use the stuff up, and that would be that. Having gray hair in my twenties seemed like it mattered, and should be avoided; now, it doesn’t matter at all, and I don’t remember why it ever did. Each one is a medal of survival; I know that I earned every last one of them, and quite of few of them since last summer.
The box of hair dye was sitting on the counter in the bathroom last weekend. I put it there myself. It was one of two left in the cabinet. But I looked at it, and decided to put the decision I’d made last summer into action now, rather than ten weeks from now. And, oddly enough, the action is non-action, other than tossing the boxes into the trash. Yielding to what is, instead of striving for something else entirely. Being, instead of doing. That appeals to me more and more; in it, I find peace. And the longer I live, the greater premium I put on peace: peace of mind, peace of heart, peace of home, peace in relationships.
"The world is not to be put in order, the world is order incarnate. It is for us to put ourselves in unison with this order."–Henry Miller