The picture that launched a thousand words… All about my hair!

So I posted a new picture of myself on Facebook and Rebecca (Wilson, publisher of Starts at Sixty) says, “Is there a story in this”.  You have to be very careful what you say or post around that woman, she wants stories for Starts at Sixty and she knows how to get them!

For most of my hair life I’ve worn my hair short, but until I was 15, my hair reached the back of my knees.  In those days when showers were for rinsing off sand in the outdoors and baths ruled, Mum washed my hair over the laundry tub, rather like hand washing towels, then out into the sun to let it dry, and yes we used Sunlight soap!

For school it was plaited and tied up with ribbons, to match our uniform.  Inevitably the dreaded nits found their way into the school and into my hair.  Poor Mum had to apply this “stuff” that smelled like kerosene and then remove the pests with a fine toothed comb, sorry Mum I know you had to do it, but to this day the words “fine toothed comb” make me shudder.

When I went to high school, there were a few of us with plaits and I particularly remember Ann, whose hair was naturally and beautifully blond, and Julia who had very dark chocolate, nearly black tresses; there were no such words to describe my colour, which was somewhere between red and mouse!

Dad allowed me to have my hair cut when I was not quite 15, although it took some persuading; he loved my long hair and in those days you did as Dad allowed.  I didn’t give him time to change his mind and within days of him saying “Yes” my hair was shoulder length!  I loved it; Dad cried!  The next morning at school a few people walked past me giving no signs of recognition; it was a major change.

Hair-wise, things settled down for the next few years; dying my hair to achieve the colour I thought nature intended me to be, was totally out of the question; there were two formidable naysayers here, Dad and THE PRINCIPAL!  My school rules said anyone with dyed hair would be sent home until it was removed; I loved school so couldn’t take the risk of being suspended. We are talking early 60s here, when rules were rules and breaking them had consequences!  My parents would have backed the Principal 200%

After I left school and went to work, my wage could not support more than a cut at the hairdressers, but when I started earning “big” money, $20 per week, I set out to remedy what nature got wrong!  My first foray into colour was to have my hair hennaed, red hair here I come! Then came bright red, dark red, streaks, perms, and just in case a wardrobe of wigs for all occasions!  Long blond one day, “afro” the next, Mary Quant in black on the third.  What was I thinking???? A good memory was needed here; some guys went quite strange when the long blond hair they dated on Friday turned into dark haired afro on Saturday!

Luckily I’m blessed with good quality hair, thick and strong, inherited from both sides of my family so the constant colouring, bleaching and perming did not leave me bald as some predicted. Over the years there have been some disasters like the perm solution left on too long so that my hair was breaking off at the roots; or the time my “blond” was decidedly bright sunflower yellow, neither were good looks!  In the main however, I’ve had great hairdressers that is until…

Around January 2013 I tried a new hairdresser and the results were a total disaster; having survived into my 60s why now?  Although I’m inclined to say, “it’s hair not brain surgery” I could not look into the mirror and see orange, yes ORANGE hair staring back at me!  Not the intended colour I assure you just a bad “colourist” as some like to be called.  I went to another hairdresser who was not even prepared to try to tone down this wonderful colour, and advised me that the best remedy was to let it grow out!

I partially took her advice allowing the colour to fade but using a toner, and noted that without “help” I had quite a lot of grey in my hair.  I have a couple of friends whose hair is totally and wonderfully grey, so after finally cutting out all the old hair colour, I too am proudly grey or in some circles “mature blond”.

Reading this you must wonder if I have a life outside the hairdresser.  See what you started Rebecca, I bet you didn’t think it would take so long to tell you why I am, finally, grey!

“It is hair not brain surgery”, so I hope all Starts at Sixty readers have a good giggle reading this, I’ll join you! Hair’s to us!

Karen

P.S. Would you like me to tell you about my new glasses… No?  I thought not!

What are you doing with your hair? Letting it go grey or keeping it coloured?