OK, so, I'm generally the last person on earth to comment on how someone looks. I'm faceblind, generally focused on where I'm going, and frankly don't really give a shit. But waiting in line for the elevator at Century 21 this afternoon, in an ill-fated attempt to introduce the Muppets to Peppa and George Pig, I had the rare occasion to observe trendy New Yorkers in their natural habitat. And the I spotted for the first time in the flesh a phenomenon I'd read about but assumed was surely just a flight of some fashion writer's whimsy: the gray dye job.
There she was, waif-thin and Amazon-tall, with what was probably lovely olive skin under a thick coat of orange-tinged Spackle. But I wouldn't have noticed any of that if it weren't for the long, wavy locks of mousy gray hair hanging over her shoulders from quarter-inch JET BLACK ROOTS.
Seriously?! J. Buddy Christ, why not just etch "I do what the fashion magazines tell me to do" right across your forehead-Spackle? Why on EARTH would someone...just...WHY?
I dunno why this irritates me so much. Obviously I have no problem with dying hair weird colors, but that's just it: Gray isn't a "weird color." It's a fucking DESTINATION. You will all get there, young grasshoppers. But you must wait until it is your time. Gray is experience. It is sacred. It is earned. You can get aaaaany other color from a bottle or a tube, but gray comes from LIFE.
Not a tube. Life.
Gray is not a passing fad. Gray is a state of mind. It is miles traveled and lessons learned. It is strictly the realm of "old ladies" and those of us who, through trauma or genetics, prematurely bore the hue--along with the stigma to match. Our grays, from white to slate to silver, chose US, and we in turn found ourselves in the ways in which we embraced them.
So back away from the tube, Spackle Lady. Your gray will come when you're good and ready.