HAIR-RAISING Experience

I envy women who have perfect hair. No sooner does summer approach than I start seeing cute, short haircuts everywhere.

It does not matter that it took forever for my hair to grow to the length it is now. I see short hair that looks good on another woman, and I’m ready to pull out a pair of scissors. The woman may be 20 years younger and so beautiful that her hairstyle hardly matters, but it’s hard to let go of the dream.

Even now in my fifties I occasionally take a magazine picture of an adorable do to my hairdresser as an example of what I want. She nods knowingly, and I leave with the same hair God gave me only slightly shorter. What I really want is a haircut that will somehow transform me like an episode from “Extreme Makeover.”

If clothes make the man, hair makes the woman. It is, after all, a woman’s crown and glory. Commercials tout hair products that vow to turn your limp locks into Rapunzel’s flowing tresses. Unless you are extremely near sighted or in total denial, you realize that the model shown before using the hair product has on no make-up with naturally lush locks that were merely dirty and flattened.

By the commercial’s end, she miraculously appears with gorgeous wind-blown hair promising that a certain shampoo will do the same for you. If you believe that, start packing in search of the fountain of youth.

The truth is we are stuck with the hair our genes gave us. For me, that means thin, straight as a string hair with a mind of its own. Growing up, my mother cut my hair in a style similar to Buster Brown. I’m surprised she didn’t put a bowl over my head when she trimmed it. I have tried every size curling iron and brand of perm imaginable, and my hair always returns to its natural state of straightness.

The texture of my hair is only one of its problems.  I found my first gray hair at age 16, and by 30 I had enough showing in the front to give me a skunk-like appearance. I finally broke down and tried to color it myself. (That’s right, I fell for another commercial.  This time it was Clairol showing beautiful women with every beautiful hair color imaginable.)

Clairol even had a little chart in the store showing you how to get closest to your natural color. Since none of the names said “mousy brown,” I decided on “Autumn” which seemed a fair facsimile from the postage-stamp-size color shown on the side of the box.

I went home anxious to return to my former mousy brown self. What I learned the hard way was you need to choose a shade much lighter than what appears on the box. Once applied, I rinsed and dried to look into the mirror and see Morticia Adams staring back. I refused to leave the house for a week as I washed my hair repeatedly trying to remove the black-shoe-polish-colored look.

I finally mastered color as well as I was ever going to when I suddenly found myself facing 50. I was tired of doing my own color and decided to see a professional.  She immediately suggested I go much lighter for my pale, sun-deprived looking skin. Me, blonde? You’ve got to be kidding. Thank goodness the color wasn’t like Pamela Anderson or Dolly Parton as I’d feared. It was very subtle, and to my surprise, I really liked it.

I was prepared to face the world at 50, and see if blondes really do have more fun. I’m 59 now, and so far my life may be funnier but that does not necessarily translate into more fun for me.

In fact, I have picked up another blonde trait I never bargained for. I think my IQ dropped dramatically when the blonde color was applied since I find myself struggling for lost words and forgotten names.  At the risk of pulling my hair out completely, I have resigned myself to the fact that I have not turned into a stereotypical “ditzy blonde,” but merely a memory-challenged senior instead.

Connie Meyer writes regularly for Today’s Transitions. You can reach Connie at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .