Im 65, and although Ive never been fussed about my looks much, the white hairs have started to win the race these days. Not just one or twowhole streaks, mostly at the roots. Popping into the hairdresser no longer seemed so straightforward: what with time, cost, and that eternal waiting, I began to wonder if it wouldnt be such a disaster to dye my hair at home. After all, Id coloured it myself for years. What really could go wrong?
So, I wandered down to the corner chemistcertainly nowhere fancy. I asked the assistant for something for grey hair. She asked what sort of shade I wanted. Just an ordinary chestnut, nothing dramatic, I replied. She handed me a box that looked reassuringly plain and serious, with a model showing off some sensible-looking hair on the front. 100% grey coverage! it promised. Well, that had me sold. I didnt bother reading anything else. I walked home, sure that by tea-time all would be sorted.
I slipped on an old t-shirt, grabbed a tired towel, mixed the concoction as the tiny leaflet directed, and applied the dye, peering into the bathroom mirror. At first, everything seemed perfectly normal. The colour looked as dark as ever. I went to wait out the time, distracted myself by doing the washing up and tidying the kitchen.
But after about twenty minutes, something peculiar happened. I glanced in the mirror and my hair didnt look brown at allit looked purple. I blamed the wonky bathroom lighting and told myself I was imagining things.
When it came time to rinse, though, I knew Id landed myself in a proper muddle. The moment water touched my hair, I watched it swirl awayfirst lavender, then a sort of dark coffee, and finally almost pitch black. I blinked at my reflection in the steamed-up glass and there I wasa vision in lilac and violet gleams, with a bizarre hue I didnt know how to name. Yes, the white hairs had gone. But at what cost…
I tried blow-drying my hair, half-hoping the colour would settle down once dry. It didnt. If anything, it looked even bolder. I resembled some hapless extra from a rubbish teen fashion magazinenot quite the look for a 65-year-old. All I could do was laugh. There really was nothing else for it.
I phoned my daughter on video call. The moment she saw me, she nearly burst out laughing. Mum what on earth have you done? she managed through giggles. Book me a hairdressers appointment, I replied.
The next day, I had no choice but to venture out as I was. I wrapped a scarf over my head, but the purple still peeked out. In the corner shop, someone asked if it was a daring new trend; a woman at the bakery said how brave I was to try such colours. I nodded along, as if this boldness was all by design.
Two days later, I shuffled into the salonwithout a scrap of pride left. The hairdresser took one look and understood everything. She didnt judge. Just calmly remarked, Youd be surprised how often this happens. I left with my hair set right, my purse lighter by forty quid, and a crystal-clear lesson: some things you think you can still do, just as you always haveuntil the day you end up with a purple head.
Since then, Ive accepted two simple truths: grey hair marches in uninvited, and some battles are best left to the professionals. This isnt a family tragedyits a surreal little anecdote, as real as rain on a summers day.
