Author’s Note: As today is Superbowl Sunday I thought I’d run this post now- to balance out all the testosterone in the air. Seriously, guys. I know your minds are on passing and punting and touchdowns and penalties and bad calls and funny commercials and beer. With some nachos thrown in. So this one’s for you, ladies. Enjoy. Guys, see you all back on Thursday.
My hair has always been black. Not dark brown. No reddish highlights. Black. Okay, maybe not Polynesian princess, Indian rani, or Delores Del Rio black, but for a girl who went to New Trier High School in Winnetka, Illinois in the sixties, it was black enough. It was something that defined me. And I wasn’t any too crazy about it-then.
In those impressionable teenage years you quickly learned that “Blonde Rules.” Cheryl Tiegs, Christie Brinkley and Cybill Shepherd were considered the paradigms of beauty at my high school. And all the girls flocked to follow their towheaded examples. We had 4700 kids at New Trier in those days, and it seemed to me that at least 4000 had been born natural blondes. And if they weren’t so blessed by Mother Nature, “Sun In,” “Born Blonde,” and Clairol’s “Ultra Blue” were always on hand at White’s Drug store to help them achieve their platinum ends- or streaks.
Even the boys were not immune. Until the Beatles and the Rolling Stones came in and swept away all previous notions of manly beauty, the Beach Boys set the pace for our guys. Wheat jeans, madras shirts, penny loafers (it got kind of cold for huarches) were de rigeur, and what went better with letter sweaters than blonde hair? You had to be blonde to be in.
Take the cheerleaders, for example. I knew I could never make the squad. Okay, I couldn’t jump, cartwheel or do the splits, but those were minor technicalities. I didn’t have the requisite hair. I never bothered running for class office, either. I wouldn’t have been elected. In the spirit of full disclosure, I must admit that I wasn’t the slightest bit political and didn’t have enough girlfriends to ever head the GAA. But those were tiny flaws when compared to my basic follicle unsuitability as a political candidate.
I just didn’t have the right look for it. You know the one I mean- the long, blonde pageboy, or the perky, perfect golden flip. I was held back from a great high school destiny by the color of my hair. I accepted it. Life isn’t fair- especially at fifteen.
Luckily, I wasn’t a complete washout socially. I did manage to achieve some success with members of the opposite sex because there were- thankfully- some guys who went in for something a wee more exotic. I was more of the Ali Macgraw type- a niche market admittedly- but I had it covered. Still I longed for light. Catherine Deneuve, Grace Kelly, Michelle Phillips, Yvette Mimieux, Candace Bergen, Twiggy, Sandra Dee, Carol Lynley, now these were my goddesses, and I worshipped them from afar.
This hair isolation continued into my adulthood. It seemed that all my girlfriends – with maybe one or two rare exceptions- went blonde years before I had ever even met them. I was always going to be the outsider. But as the years progressed a funny thing happened. Just as I started to like myself as a brunette, “salt” started to creep into my “pepper.” And by my late forties, I was not a total brunette anymore. And by my late fifties, the jet blackness had completely vanished and my gray period had begun.
But my girlfriends’ heads had remained maddeningly untouched by the hands of Mother Nature’s hairdresser. They age-defiantly radiated hues of honey, amber, ash, and butterscotch still. In group photos, there we’d be. Five proud, regal, perennially-youthful Afghan Hounds and in the middle – one lone, getting-older-as-you-read-this German Shepherd.
Whenever I saw pictures like that, I wanted to die but, stubbornly, I’ve always refused to dye. I leave my head and haircut maintenance in the clever and capable hands of the adorable Nikki. Nikki is always too sweet or too tactful to say anything pointed about the fact that I am her only customer griséé. In fact, she tells me she kind of likes it. She just gives me a great haircut and leaves it at that.
And now, ironically, I have finally gotten my childhood wish. I am no longer the darkest head in the room. In fact, my coiffeur has hardly a black hair anywhere in sight.
Be careful what you wish for.
Lowlights, Nikki? What do you think?
As someone who also does not color her hair, I especially loved this. My natural autumn shade is slowly turning a hazy shade of winter.
Thanks for the props, ML. But no way. I have never noticed a thing. Your head is as gloriously russet as ever. Darn you.
Hilarious! As a lifelong brunette, albeit helped these past 20 years by Anita Russum’s magic”brown wand”, my hair color has remained the same. I had never thought about, or intended to color it,but my mother, who has been “removing” the gray in her hair for years, made a pronouncement to me -“I’m not gray, nor will you be.” Reluctant at first, I asked my hairdresser what he thought. “Well, your color is a bit dusty”. That did it! As a clean freak, such a reference sent me straight to the colorist! So bravo Ellen. I love your fifty shades of gray and I will always be one of your few brunette fans – no streaks, no red tints,just the color I was born with. Funny, I never wanted to be a blonde – it just didn’t suit me. So as the strands of time march on, I will always remain my hue, and love your distinctive 50 shades of gray.
Your Anita must be a magician. I never knew a thing. Thanks for your endorsement, Joan. Your are a tough grader and I’m glad you approve of my color – and this post.
Your hair is your signature look. You would look ridiculous with colored hair. Some women are much more attractive with grey hair and they wear it elegantly. You are one of those. And what’s more, think of the time and money you are saving…
Thank you, Sherry. This comment is both smart and practical. And very, very nice. Love to all.
WOW!!!!! Thank G-d I grew up in South Shore in the fifties!!
I guess things like that didn’t matter as much on the South Side as it did in New Trier.
Our girls were still the most beautiful in the city!
P.S. Also in those days, South Shore High was ranked HIGHER academically than New Trier. BOOK IT!!!
The above opinion is that of Bernie’s and Bernie’s alone and does not represent the opinion of this blog. But let the blog just mention that we had Ann-Margret.
Nuff said.
Wow!!!!!! Exactly like I felt throughout high school, college and adult hood. At 51 I colored my hair blond and have not looked back. I don’t know why it took me so long.
Thanks,Cathy. Glad you’ve found a happy hair ending.
My mother only colored her hair once – for a one-time commercial for Toni Magic Moment that aired during the 1970 Miss America Pageant. She was 47. Here’s how she looked three years later. https://www.flickr.com/photos/brulelaker/8569386369/in/set-72157612296288661