White washing

I am not talking about the lies people tell, the stories they make up to get into or out of various uncomfortable situations. I am talking about going white, not in clothing, but hair. The issue is not about it happening, but what to do when it has happened.

My mother went white – silver, actually – very late in her life. And I started going the same silver, in a less distinguished way, when my mother went, in the permanent manner that she rather startled us by. While she greyed (for lack of a more elegant term) gently and prettily at the temples, my few white hairs insist on springing straight up from the middle of my hairline, refusing to be subdued into the rest of my carefully groomed mane. When I talk to people, particularly strangers, their eyes tend to wander directly to those errant strands, so violently contrasted to the rest of my very black locks (the part that is natural, not the purple and dark red that is slowly growing out).

The question is, what should I do about those silver streaks? My father and I staunchly vetoed every attempt my mother made to colour her white hair to a less ageing dark brown or black. At the time, though carcinogenic hair dyes were no longer commonly available, the fear lingered, and Mom was forbidden to even think about trying to change what was, to us and much of the rest of the world who ever met her, her amazing beauty, grey hair and all, in any way. For me, my silver is a badge of honour, a memory of a time I would rather forget, incredibly painful, but needed in a strangely comforting way – just like when you pick a scab or poke a bruise and actually like the pain that results. It is, my dermatologist tells me, a sign of trauma and shock. In my mind, a reminder of something that I should have in some way prevented if I had only tried harder, a constant memory of a guilt that I can never rid myself of.

My friends have been dyeing for ages now. They go different colours at various times in their lives. Most of them do it to cover the grey; only a few do it for fun. I coloured my hair about a year ago for a more strange reason – I had it straightened a couple of years ago, then defrizzed at regular intervals since. But all this tinkering involves chemicals, which effectively strip the hair of its natural colour. And my very black hair was slowly turning an anaemic albeit dark brown. The first time the correction was done, I had it laminated, which sounded rather better than it actually was – each strand was nicely coated in a high gloss layer of translucent black that, for some strange reason, dripped darkly onto my neck and shoulders whenever it was wet. The second time, I was more savvy, as was my hairdresser and we opted for a glaze, which left no colour on parts of me when it was dampened. But the glaze I chose was deep purple, which looked divinely Hispanic when I was in sunshine, vaguely fluorescent when I stood under a tubelight and gradually orange as it was exposed to the sun and shampoo.

Finally, a couple of months ago, I did my final colour correction, giggling along with my hairdresser as we turned the orange striped mop that was mine into a uniformly deep red, one that was guaranteed not to morph into something less savoury. It worked and so far I look like I have fairly naturally shaded hair, even with a high water mark of dark red fading into black. And my potentially raccoon-strip of stark silver, of course!