On Hope: The Redhead

The Redhead

Vanity is a terrible thing—one of those vices I have tried to avoid. But what can you do when the people who love you run their fingers affectionately through your hair, saying: “You’re getting a few gray ones there, Mother!” You work on your self-esteem. You tell yourself that gray equals distinguished. You read books with titles like: Aging with grace. Then, if you can see, you visit the hair colour section of the local drugstore, mix the formula, consult the mirror and wait for the reaction of others. If you can’t see, you search among the people who love you, appoint one of them as your official fashion consultant and send that person to the drugstore. Then you mix the formula and wait for a reaction.

My consultant chose light Golden Brown. People said it was barely noticeable. Things went on pretty nicely for more than two years. People would pat my head, caress my hair.If they said anything about roots, or aging, or gray, I would dispatch somebody to pick up Light Golden Brown.

Last week somebody mentioned roots, so I sent the fashion consultant to the drugstore. In hindsight, I see how I might have been a little more considerate, recognized the signs of her bending under the pressure of university exams,

deferred asking for favours until she had rid herself of the burden of memorizing endlessly tedious facts on classroom management and mainstreaming. In hindsight I might have said; “Maybe this isn’t the time,” when she suggested that we try: “Something a little different.” Instead I simply said: “Okay. You pick something.” She picked Spice Tea.

The name was very appealing. It seemed like something you should drink, but I put on the protective gloves they sent, and lathered it in, just like the Light Golden Brown. The effort got immediate results. The reviews were, to say the least, mixed.

The fashion consultant said: “It’s a little redder than we’re used to, quite red on top.” The man of my dreams said: “Maybe tomorrow we should get some Light Golden Brown and cover it up, unless you want to be a redhead.” The family biker said later that he’d noticed but hadn’t chosen to speak about it. The one who comes home for Sunday dinners said he hadn’t noticed, still couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Granddad said: “I didn’t know you were a redhead, Wendy!” Then he laughed.

The fashion consultant said I should keep the colour, and I had to admit that red hair probably wouldn’t do me any harm. After all, look what it did for Anne of Green Gables. It got her Gilbert Blythe and a big television series! I decided to take it cool and embrace my new life as a redhead.

The next day was a holiday. My new life got off to a slow start. The biker went biking. The man of my dreams accepted me as a redhead and went off to do income tax with Granddad. The fashion consultant studied endlessly at the kitchen

table. It was boring. She looked up often. Her mood was pensive.

“You have to consider that Dad is always a little hesitant about change,” she mused. “Still, I think it would look even better if you got a haircut.” She and I went to the hairdresser. The hairdresser took one look and cried: “Wow! You coloured your hair!”

If good authority hadn’t told me it was red, I might have feared it was blue. I told her I’d been colouring it for years. She said she’d never noticed. I told her I needed a trim, figured she should be allowed to decide how much of a trim it needed.

Apparently it needed a lot of trimming. She snipped and clipped and hummed. When she’d finished, the remaining hair was measurable only in centimeters or fractions of inches.

The fashion consultant gave an appraising look and said it wasn’t as red as it had been. Then, running her fingers lovingly between the strands she added: “You really should delay colouring it until after you get it cut. I can see the grey roots where the red didn’t make it all the way down.”

The family biker didn’t appear to notice. The man of my dreams thought it was better after the cut. I remembered that Anne of Green Gables had braids, which means she definitely didn’t have short hair. Nevertheless, for the second time in 24 hours I decided to enjoy life as a redhead.

Next morning I took my new look to the office and waited for my new life to begin. I sat in the sunshine. I ran my fingers through my hair. A client asked if he was giving me a headache. Two days later one of my colleagues commented positively on the change. Outside of that, I’d say that the red hair hasn’t made much of a difference. Could it be that it takes more than a change of hair colour to launch a new life? Vanity is a terrible thing.

Wendy Edey, Hope House, April 26, 2000

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