Subtle Shades of Grey. Gray. Whatever.

I had a paradigm shift this morning.
Thanks, All Bran cereal.
Baa bum dum.

Ha. Seriously, I awoke like any other Monday (that is to say, I hit the snooze until 7:30 for Husband while I felt oppressed that he can neither hear nor see the alarm he set to start screaming at 6:15) and began rousing children and dog.

I had no idea my life would change with the click of the bathroom light.

For the second time in my life, I have gone too long between root touch-ups. For those of you with light hair, or blessed with dark, Liar's Hair that never greys until you're like 75, you will have no idea what this means. For those of us who have been dying our hair since the age of 15 due to greys (and to achieve a Spice Girls inspired need for red hair with chunky blonde bangs), you get it.

I used to go every 6 weeks to get my roots done. Upon my 30th birthday, however, my hair took a turn for the 45% grey tone and I had to up my trips to the fountain of youth to every 3 weeks. Let's not even get started on the new, exciting places to wax once you're thirty.  30 = Hair Rebellion Against the Empire-- I feel like Darth Lizabeth wishing I could crush and maim every stray hair, every grey hair. Obi Wan, if you help them, I will cut you. Truth.

My newest addiction is Draw Something for my phone.
If this pic was done on that, you'd know it was a  mop with whom Husband is chatting.
Instead, it looks like a brown hummingbird with the longest beak ever. Sigh.

Husband, who is blind as a bat without his glasses, says I look beautiful all the time-- but I get more back and shoulder rubs when I remind him less of Betty White, so I continue.

At any rate, I looked into the mirror this morning and realized that there are lots of women that are young and hip and trendy who also happen to be as grey as I pretend I'm not. So why do I insist on being something I'm not? What kind of thing is this teaching my daughter? Am I not showing her that being Young is extremely important, even to her normally level-headed mother? Am I not buying into the stereotypes blah, blah, blah Hollywood blah, blah?  And what about body image? Why, if I'm dying my hair, shouldn't I also be obsessing about my body and doing insane, unhealthy things to make me a size 0?

It's been 5 weeks since I touched up my roots, and 9 since
I waxed my brows, lips, chin, nose and ears.
This outfit is for the best. Trust me. 

I plugged in the little pot of wax into the warmer and continued. (I've also been waxing myself since I was 15, so I'm pretty much a professional.  I don't recommend tackling this as a new skill-set at my age now. It's one thing to mess up and leave yourself with only one eyebrow when you're 15, it's a whole other thing when you're 35. Don't ask how I know. Yes, either one.)

While the wax heated, I stared blankly into the mirror. I look bloated and tired this morning, but to be fair, I spent the last 48 hours dying of The Bubonic Plague (which I don't know what it really is except that without Advil and Tylenol, I would have checked myself into the hospital). Every 6 hours exactly, I suddenly couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow, all my joints felt like fire and I'd alternate between sweats and chills with a side of raging face-ache. The meds seemed to take the edge off, but when they wore out, oh Lordy.

Bloated and tired be damned-- for 48 hours into having The Plague, I look pretty darn good.

Kiddo #1 bounced into my bathroom asking me to help her with a zipper. Kiddo #2 is at my mother's. She, like the wonderful mother she is, called and said she was taking him for three days so I might have a chance to get better. I'm writing this blog and finishing some sewing instead. I hope she doesn't read this or I'll get a nasty phone call. No, I won't. That's not her style.  She won't say a word, but she'll send Kiddo #2 home addicted to sugar and CSI: Miami. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree; I'm afraid.

So Kiddo #1 finished getting dressed while I continued to look at my face in the mirror. I normally don't spend so much time peering at myself (who has time?) but also, I'm not usually running on Advil Cold and Sinus and Tylenol, either which makes everything take a little longer than normal; I began moving my hair around to see just how much grey was showing.

Kelly Osbourne, Pixie Geldolf, Ruby Rose and P!ink all rock the grey.
But am I crazy enough to pull it off?

And then it hit me. The paradigm shift occurred: I could just let my hair grow in grey! Just let it grow and be done with dying it every 3 weeks! Who cares? Plus, lots of very young people, women in their 20's, rock grey hair and it looks awesome. Sophisticated and cool.

See? P!nk is pretty super cool.

Oh.
Right.

These ladies, are famous and cool and just a bit out there.

Well, I suppose I'm technically a nutter compared to a lot of people. Well, at least like, some people. Is the trick to make sure your grey has some crazy pink or blue undertone? (isn't that what gets the old ladies that bad rep-- that blue undertone?) Does having grey hair mean I'll have to learn to knit and play bingo or can I still be a rockstar, with my rock moves?

I envisioned myself with grey hair all over my head. The picture looked more like Betty White and less like P!nk, however. Not quite the look I'm going for.

And then, it occurred! A second paradigm shift! If I stop dying my hair and go grey, then I will (for sure) begin obsessing about my wrinkles and other signs of aging. If I'm young and 20 with grey hair that's one thing. But once your face starts sagging, I'll be back to the salon. Screw you, grey hair.

And then, finally, it hit me. I'm Canadian! Out with the penny and in with the new Glow In the Dark Quarter!  I can ditch my dye job, but not commit to grey and simply switch to glow-in-the-dark! If you have no idea what I'm talking about, here's an article.

(http://news.cnet.com/8301-17938_105-57412545-1/canadas-newest-coin-glows-in-the-dark/)  

How much fun would it be to become a light source? This is Epic the way kids are using it now (not like, Epic poetry, although I'm sure there would be amazing poetry that comes from my glow in the dark hair).

I wouldn't need a cell phone to unlock my door in the middle of the night, or a nightlight for the kids, either. I wouldn't have to turn on a frickin screaming, blaring fluorescent at 2am when the dog needs to go out. I'd be able to go to the movies and find the napkin in my purse without sticking my hand in the adhesive that is movie theatre flooring. The list goes on and on.

... Perhaps, after time, my eyes would finally adjust to sunlight, instead of the sun making me crazy with blind rage!  The possibilities are endless.  I could even start going to Raves again; I'd be the coolest old lady there.

Fo sho, Day-Glo.