An ode to Clairol #110

I recieved a rather impertinent question the other day.  Fortunately it was from a good friend, who is absolutely entitled to a bit of impertinence!  He wanted to know if I was a redhead by birth or by design.

Now, any woman could take one glance at the ever-changing hues on my head and not have to ask such a silly question.  It's acutally funny to learn that men might be naive enough to even wonder.

While I am now the same age as the lovely actresses who shill hair color in television ads, dye is not exactly a new development in my life.  I've been coloring my hair for the sheer joy of it since I was about 24.  Younger than that if you count a few ill-fated experiments with henna, lemon juice, or that wicked concoction from the 80's known as "Sun In."

I've been coloring so long that I'm only vaguely acquainted with my natural shade.  If I had to hazzard a guess, I'd say it is the sort of soft, mouse brown that is pretty ubiquitous in my part of the Midwest.  I'm certain that any flattering, youthful highlights have long since fled, and I know that a handful of grays are now sprinkled through my crown.  There's absolutely nothing wrong with mouse brown tinged with silver. 

So why bother with coloring?  

Personally, it's just that brown has never suited my vanity all that well.  I can't pull off a sultry brunette with my fair skin and blue eyes.  I don't particularly desire to be blonde.  (And anyway, the required maintenance would suck the fun right out of that hue.)  My dad and my maternal uncles all have gorgeous red hair, and so my inherited coloring is well-suited to a shade that most women would wince at.  (And yes, I can also wear chartreuse.  Another big wince-inducer.)

But mostly, I'm just attracted to the idea of having red hair, and all the associations that go with it.  I have a pathological need to stand out in a crowd.  I've always enjoyed cultivating a certain affect of wildness, although my friends know I have more in common with a bookworm than an adventuress.  I identify with brash, bawdy ladies like Lucille Ball, Carol Burnett.  If your restaurant table doesn't have the loudest, most uncouth laughter in the room, then I'm probably not sitting at it. 

Did you know Margaret Sanger was a redhead?  So was Napoleon Bonaparte.  And Vincent Van Gogh, James Joyce, and Mark Twain (before he had his iconic white mane).  If you're creative, attention-seeking, and sort of domineering, red might just be the color for you.


I look forward to reading corresponding essays on why brunette is better, along with one or two defensive rants from blondes.