My beloved friend David, who has done my hair, counseled me through my love life’s ups and downs, and consistently made me laugh and feel loved for more than 30 years, called me last night. After we caught up and chatted for a bit about the inane and mundane kinds of things we’re all chatting about these days, David made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.
As a result, this Saturday morning I will drive to his salon and pull up at the curb. He will bring me a bag containing everything I need …. to color my own roots.
I am not a vain person. I always felt like a redhead at heart, though my hair was, well, brown. I suppressed that throughout much of my long marriage; the account of the day I decided to take the leap is a story for another day.
But these days my work, like so many others’, requires me to be on video all the freakin’ time — more than many people, even, because I host online public programs in front of lots of people. I can only adjust the lighting so much before my encroaching grey roots become a real issue.
So I’ll get my goodie bag, and David will teach me, via Facetime, how to administer the coloring. Lord knows how it will turn out; at the very least, it will be a life experience, an adventure, and probably a lot of fun.
The whole thing reminds me of a story. A few years ago, not long after I had gone red, I was in the final moments of an annual checkup with my ob-gyn, who had done the usual exam. As we wrapped things up, so to speak, he mentioned that I should be on the lookout for a condition that, he said, disproportionately affects “fair-skinned, red-headed women like you.”
Fair-skinned? Yes, indeed. But red-headed?
Doc, you were just down there.
I still go to, and actually adore, that doctor. Like David, he’s been taking care of me for a very long time. But I have to confess that, for a moment — and a brief moment it was — I wondered whether he was really smart enough to be my doctor, after all.