Gray Area

It’s Friday 2:32pm and I left work early. I’m getting my hair dyed for the first time at a neighborhood salon. Sure, a normal occurrence for most teens. Not a big deal for my California cousins who are the same age and have changed their hues every time I’ve visited. And mainstreamed by celebrities, boudoir, and drag couture for pink infusions. Personally, I’ve always used bleach. It started as spritzes of bright yellow bottled Sun-In from 13-year-old days packed with lemony scent and immediacy. Genetically, my hair was an orange curly mass. Spiritually, I am a redhead. When I spend hours running or exploring outside in the summer, my hair lightens. My spirit lightens.

The stylist says he will do a good job. I’ve never met him but I must trust him. He partitions my hair in waves so that it looks like a book spine pushed inside out with pages segmented. It will be darker, he says. But not gray. The idea is that gray is bad and needs to be covered. I agree. Gray is neither here nor there. Middle value. Middle age value.

This is not a hipster dye, but a reclamation of control. A milestone proclaiming that I have persevered through what, to date, has been one of the hardest times in my life. Last month, I approached my abusive husband to take formal steps to move forward without him. For fifteen years, I’d been the reality star of my own Netflix binge. I’ve been ready for the series to wrap up. After all, my ability to pivot and persevere has me featured in a more successful spin-off where he is not written into the script.

Here I am, sitting like my grandma. When my mom and I walked to visit her in Woodbury at that peach swathed salon with flowered paper walls, she swooned when she saw me but couldn’t get up. It was a contraption out of a sci-fi movie. There were rows of these circular blow dryers, five of them, each with a lady of her generation sitting cross legged, holding a magazine. This was the 70s, so these ladies would emerge with a coiffure that matched the shape of the dome. The acrid smell of hair dye infused the air but was mildly covered by lavender conditioners and powdery talcums.

I have two minutes left. It is intoxicating to inhale this chemical cloud of bespoken beauty. This rite reeks. I know I won’t like it when I’m done: I’m quite discerning on art matters. But I can bleach it later, I suppose. There are two ladies on both sides of me, like bridesmaids in a wedding. They are on their phones. I pretend my grandma would be proud of me trying to be brave and conforming to civilized standards for women.

The stylist lifts the hemisphere and gestures to the sink area seats. I sit down and get flooded with warm water. It has been years since someone else washed my hair. Maybe ten? There is grace and unspoken trust and power in relying on another person to tend to your body. The water feels like waves, washing away extra dye and polishing skin. He dabs my neck with the towel, then I head to the styling seat. A process.

The blow dryer is like ocean air: warm and welcoming. My eyes weigh heavy after not sleeping these past few weeks. I don’t fight it. I succumb to indulgent comfort.

I emerge with a honey chestnut coiffure. He takes the hot iron and starts smoothing sections. He is pleased with his work — keeps saying, “much better.” And “next time we’ll do your whole head. And then maybe highlights!” He does not ask.

Once finished, he takes the oversized mirror and exclaims, “Just look at the back!” It is difficult to try something new after having it be the same your entire life. It is difficult. To try something. New. After having it be the same half of your entire life.

I tip 20%, pressing the cash wad into his palm. And say thank you.