We all want to do it. We look at actors like Mary Steenbergen or Merryl Streep - who are eternally stunning - and think, yep! I, too, am going to age gracefully.
But I started adding highlights. My grays weren’t coming in blue-tinged and gorgeous like those confident, silver foxes (aged 20-90) we see rocking the beloved shade these days. Rather, they were stark, white frizzles with no sense of direction.
And since dark dye doesn't take to pigment-less, raw vermicelli hair, I had to go light and hope the noodles blend in. The problem is, my dark brown hair just wants to be orange-yellow when introduced to bleach and no amount of Blake-Lively-surfer-girl aspirations is going to change that. Now, if this was 1993, I would be a bombshell with my dehydrated, cornfield hair. But in 2020, it’s all about drowning the yellow with blue shampoo.
That bleepity blue sham-bleeping-poo.
Recently, we were going out for sushi for a friend’s birthday. It was a big deal because Saturday nights usually involve lounging, braless, in unseasonal Christmas jammies while dummying previously frozen french fries as back-to-back episodes of our Netflix flavour-of-the-month bring us hours of sedentary joy…
So, for the occasion, I would bust out the big guns: the blue shampoo.
Goodbye, tan, deer-hide; hello, California beach-goddess!
A friend recently informed me that it’s best to put the blue shampoo on dry hair. So that’s what I did. I stood in my bathroom mirror and glopped that iridescent, deep, purple goo through my hair with my bare hands. Then I hung out in my bathroom for 20 minutes, not bothering to wash my hands, because I would just blue ‘em up again during rinsing...
That’s right: an hour before our reservation, I dyed my hands blue.
It took a particular effect in the webspace between my fingers. I scrubbed frantically with everything I could find in my washroom: hand soap, baby soap, hair conditioner, toothpaste - nothing was working.
Ah ha, I thought (pointing one stupid, blue finger up to the ceiling), I’ll use that powdered-charcoal, teeth-whitening stuff I overpaid for a few months ago during a particularly convincing bandwagon ride. After all, it's a safe and effective, natural stain remover, according to science (Instagram ads). I dumped a mound of the jet black powder into my hands and just started frantically scrubbing. I added a bit of water to make a really penetrating, charcoal paste, in case that’s a thing.
Thirty minutes before our reservation, I was crying in the shower with indigo finger-webs; black charcoal was now embedded under my nails and in every hand crease (there are a lot of creases!). The redness, I hoped, would fade, and was just from all the scrubbing and chemicals (the toilet bowl cleaner was a low-point).
My hands looked like those of a weathered gentleman, emerging from the coal mines after a particularly gruelling shift.
If I were young and free, I would have made time to paint my nails black to match my filthy nubs. But I have children, and taking 10 minutes to idly allow my nails to dry is about as realistic as waking up naturally, without a small human sitting on my neck, asking for juice.
I had the dirtiest-looking (but cleanest) hands in that sushi joint. And, fun fact: I think my hands absorbed all the sacred blue shampoo because my hair was still less “Kate Hudson” and more “Fozzie Bear.”
Back to me (otherwise) aging gracefully...
Last week, I saw a casting notice for a television series shooting in Newfoundland. Although filming was to take place on the opposite side of the province, I felt compelled to fart on caution and request an audition.
I was sent descriptions of the roles and zeroed in on one. Let’s call her “Jane”: a 20- to 27-year-old, theatre actress with an “edgy” look.
This is perfect, I thought. Other than the fact that I am one-to-two decades older than her, I am basically Jane.
I told the casting person I would be sending in a video audition for “Jane”. Her exact response, bless her, was, “Well, she’s a bit younger than you but hey! Let’s throw the pasta at the wall and see if it sticks!” (I love this woman). “But,” she added, “perhaps you could also send in an audition for the ‘30- to 50-year-old sex worker’."
LOL, I thought. This gal is a riot.
I sent in the video audition for “Jane” the next day. I made sure to turn the light up to the “inches-from-the-sun” setting to smooth out as many necklines as possible (lest the casting people count the rings and guess my real age). Still, I didn’t love the audition, possibly because it was so obviously not a 20-something. Hopefully, the light also masked the denial.
“I received your audition, thanks,'' she replied. “But again, if you wouldn’t mind sending in an audition for the other role I sent you the sides for?”
Sweet, merciful, mother of pearl: she was serious! And, more importantly, she was right!
The night of the blue-handed, bluefin tuna, I returned home, chose a reasonable light setting, and filmed a much more appropriate audition. It felt good to not have to try so hard.
So I’m back on the reality train, worshipping at the feet of the Patron Saint of Graceful Aging, Sister Diane Keaton. I’m letting go of my inner, 20-something theater student and embracing my inner, middle-aged sex worker.
I’m considering forgoing the blonde. I don't know how I’ll manage the colourless, defiant twigs emerging from my head all willy-nilly but, perhaps, soon enough, I'll embrace those, too.
Heather Huybregts is a mother, physiotherapist, blogger (www.heatheronarock.com), YouTuber and puffin whisperer from Corner Brook, NL. Her column appears biweekly.
