a side note

Weirdly enough, after asking about my favorite thing in Israel, and then about the food, the next question is inevitably about my hair. How it figures into the story, I'm not quite sure, but I happily answer.

Yes, I am letting the natural color grow out. Yes, that white is my natural color. And really you want to know how long I've had grey hair? Well, the first streak was discovered on my first visit to a hairdresser (a friend of my Mom's) when I was in fourth grade. I could even show you about where it was, but I know no one is really that curious! Occasionally, there is a follow-up question of "why?" That answer is a little more complicated.

I started having my hair colored not long after becoming a mom. I always looked tired. Heck, I always was tired! A friend suggested that the few stray grey hairs may be exaggerating the overall effect of tired mom-ness. And, actually, she was right. I did feel better about myself when I could look in the mirror and see freshness. After a while, it just got to be fun to change my color with the seasons, with the cut, with fashion and for pure experimentation. I remember one day at the theater, sitting on the stage with the staff at lunchtime, and the statement made to me: "Admit it. When you change the color of your hair, you change -- your mood, your character, who you present to the world." It was true.

The hard fact is, though, it was easy to do because I really didn't know myself. Getting to know me was frightening, and letting anyone else know me even more so. As I've journeyed toward me, toward my place in my own life, I've come to appreciate me more. The me that's real and whole and genuine. I still liked getting my hair colored -- a little redder in the winter, a little blonder for the summer. But something began to change. Little by little people would mention my mood or my health at odd times, telling me I looked ill or angry when I felt distinctly the opposite. One day it occurred to me that for some, my roots showing indicated something unsaid. I would mention it from time to time "No, it's just my roots showing." I began to see who knew me and who didn't, because my friends could see the erroneous correlation; those who knew me less well insisted it couldn't possibly be true, because "I didn't know you even colored your hair!" (Seriously?? How could anyone miss it if they saw me more than a couple times a year?)

Slowly I realized that I was fighting with my roots more than was reasonable, and something that started out as a fun thing to make me feel more confident and healthy, more like myself, was doing just the opposite. I was heading toward being obsessive. Years earlier I had read an article by a woman who had decided to go natural. She said the process took quite a while. About a year, actually. I was intrigued, but knew my natural color was still not anywhere near even. It took me nearly two years to work up the courage to ask my husband and my hairdresser what they thought. I also sent an informal text poll to some friends. Overwhelmingly, the men I asked gave positive responses. Many of the women were leery of the idea. Some asked if the question was financially motivated. (At first, on the surface, yes; but on the most basic level, no.) Nevertheless, I decided I was going to go for it, but the question was, How?

So we made a plan, my hairdresser and I, and now people ask about my hair. Especially when we're talking about Israel. People are funny. And, in all honesty, I have never felt more free. A couple of people have mentioned that the color is flattering to my skin tone and my eyes. My response: "I figure since God put me together in the first place, the combination must be reasonably good." It's so much more than that. So much more.