For the past week or so I have been sweeping up shattered hearts. The initial explosion flinging fragments into the corners of our world. I gather them up in my dustpan for mending. After the initial commotion all will be quiet for a time and then from the next room I hear a small clink. From behind a bedroom door a spray of tinkling chimes hitting the floor. I swoop in with my broom to carefully gather the pieces that I know will fit back together. The hearts will be made whole again. I know this. But they are never quite the same. On first glance the surface appears to be unchanged but to the makers eye the hairline fractures are visible. If you look inside you might see tiny chips left by minuscule moments disintegrated into dust and never retrieved. The repairs will make them stronger in the end. Shore them up and add some reinforcement to guard against future blows. I spun them too fine. Only fit for velvet upholstered cases with the word 'Fragile' carefully hand lettered on fine paper cards.
I should have used a machine shop. Crafted them with stainless steel. Easily bleached clean and scratches sand out. No dents. No rust. Just a little polish now and then and good to go. But I sweep. Endlessly gathering microscopic pieces returned to sand.
Biggest called. She wanted to know if she needed to scare any boys.
I said, ok......I mean I said, "NO PLEASE DO NOT DO THAT."
When the world around me seems out of control. When everything becomes scattered in all directions and I can't seem to get it together. I usually look in the mirror and find I'm looking pretty scattered too. It always seems that outside turmoil takes root on my head. I'll look and realize my ends are scraggly and breakage is dancing about the crown and the color has gone dull or grown out to my ears and I am the poster child for the mess around me. So I take action.
I cut my hair.
Not short. Just to the shoulders. Short has never suited me but I don't think Hag does either so it has to be done. And afterword I feel a little shocked. And strangely more capable.
It was time to redo my highlights as well. I knew this because I was in the store with Littlest recently under that wonderful lighting and she suddenly looked at me and then came very close peering at the top of my head and said,
"Wow, I haven't really looked at your hair lately. You are really getting old."
I am that blonde as a child turned kind of Spanish moss color naturally with a good amount of gray thrown in. Very light highlights work best for me and I like them because they blend more naturally and my roots are more subtle as they grow in. But. I had to face facts. The fact is I still have some damage and the bleaching really fries my hair. The gray doesn't like it either. And It's also a pain in the butt to do and I didn't feel like messing with it. So. It wasn't a good idea.
I would have to completely color.
I have done it from time to time but never have been happy with the result. A couple of years ago I was in the store with Middlest and looking at a box of color when she exclaimed, "No, don't do that!" When I asked why she answered,
"That's Church Mom Blonde!"
She explained that when sitting in church she would look around and ALL of the blonde moms.. had the same color hair. She sweetly told me that she thought my hair was pretty the way I did it and I didn't look like everyone else. The next time I went to church I checked and Oh My Goodness. She was right. So that took care of that. I vowed to never become a Church Mom Blonde.
Being really smart I took Middlest to the store with me. I carefully scrutinized all the possibilities and picked up a box to read it. Once again I heard, "No, don't do that! It's Church Mom Blonde." I explained that it just had to be done and asked her opinion, "Which one doesn't look like Church Mom Blonde?"
To which she scanned the shelves and answered, "They all DO."
So. I look at the boxes claiming color depth and glittering highlight and
I KNOW THEY LIE
But I convince myself that maybe technology has improved the results and I really will have that pretty blend of bronze and gold with silver strands gilding it. Look, on the box it says my dark blonde will will glow golden and my gray will shine with shimmering light.
I BUY THE LIE.
One of the reasons I color my own hair is that I actually know what I'm doing. Or at least I did 20 years ago so I figure I'm safe. Despite the green gray cast to my natural hair I know that hidden deep in the shaft are insidious red molecules generated by my Irish ancestors. So I choose a 'cool' shade to counteract brassiness.
They didn't mention it would be PINK CHAMPAGNE
which is what I saw when I was toweling my hair after coloring. I had a moment of total panic and ran outside to see if it could be true. Thank Goodness. It was only a dull flat shade of "Church Mom Blonde." Until I went back in the bathroom. Which is when it occurred to me that some time ago we replaced all our bulbs with fluorescent. Whoo, that was close. I will blend in with all the other church moms and not be noticed at all. As long as I never am under fluorescent lights again.
But that's ok. I decided it might be kind of fun. I little bit of rebellion. A little bit of kick to show that I'm Not Your Typical Church Mom.
Until this morning in the kitchen when Littlest looked at me sadly and said, "Mom, don't color your hair anymore. Face it."
"YOU ARE TOO OLD"
Moon Music For My Second and Third Phases of Child Developement.
My friend Nicole may feel free to ROTFL at me and my hair ; )
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