Grandma Goes Grey

Actually, I began going grey long before I was a grandmother. It was really annoying, because the best feature of my fine, limp hair was its shine and color. I called it dark brown. My friend insisted it was black. "No, " I said, "I'll tell you who has black hair. It's your sister, Dodie." "That's what I mean, " she replied. "Your hair is black, just like Dodie's." Whatever.

In my thirties, I started using Clairol's shampoo-in haircolor. By my forties, I was having semi-permanent haircolor applied at a salon. By my sixties, I had become so grey I needed a stronger product. The question was: could my baby-fine hair withstand the harsh chemicals? After two or three months and much breakage, I had my answer. My stylist cut it as short as she could for the growing-out phase. As new silver-grey hair came in during the next six or seven months, the remaining color faded from brown to an ugly orange. I was a sight. My sister took one look at me and laughed. "Now you have hair just like Ginger's," she said. Ginger was Barbara's orange-and-white Brittany spaniel.

Meanwhile, at work, our team had enjoyed a small success. We were invited to brief an important agency official on our project, along with teams from eight other offices. I went first. After my 3-minute talk (with slides!) was over, the Big Chief said, "I have to leave the room for a minute. I need everyone to hold their questions until I get back."

When he returned, he forgot all about the questions and went on to the second briefer. Later, I told my team chief that I was a little disappointed about that. "Oh," replied Kurt, "He just wanted to spare your feelings. He knew the question everyone was dying to ask was, 'What the hell have you done with your hair?' "