Back to my roots
You may have noticed that I have white hair.
It wasn't always this way. A half dozen
years ago, I was a blond. For fifty-some-odd
before that, a brunette.
My decision
to allow my hair to go white had nibbled
around the fringes of my brain for years
before I did it. When I finally decided to
take the plunge, it was an act of both
practicality and courage.
On the
practical side, my hair grows quickly. The roots shoot up faster than
bamboo. I'd spend an entire weekday
afternoon (and a not unsubstantial amount
of money) getting it colored and by the
weekend, white tendrils were springing
around my face like wildflowers after the
rain. Every couple of weeks I'd have do
"touch-ups" which were messy, smelly and
difficult due to the fact my hair is as
thick and unmanageable as Brillo and I could
never quite see what I was doing at the back
of my head.
On the
courage side, well, I'm sure you can imagine
without my having to go into all the details. But...What
red-blooded-close-to-baby-boomer wants to
look (suck in your breath) old! After
all, that's what everyone assumes of someone
with white hair. You might as
well go around wearing a Medicare t-shirt!
But one day,
when a bottle of hair dye slipped from my
hand, shattered and
sprayed the entire bathroom, including new
towels and bathmats with shards of broken
glass as well as globs of Nice 'n Easy
Natural Medium Golden Blonde (which, when on
my hair wasn't that dark, but on the pale
blue terry, turned a permanent brown), I had
an awakening.
Well, what
really happened is that I sat down in the
middle of the mess and cried. But after
that, while making a feeble attempt to
clean up, I started thinking about why I was
coloring my hair. Who was I doing it for?
Why did I need to? What was I gaining from
the bottle and what would I lose if I
stopped?
These were
questions I'd never considered. And they
were daunting. I'd been dyeing my hair since my
twenties. My mother passed away at the age
of 82 not long after an appointment where
she'd had her hair colored the same honey
blond she'd adopted 50+ years before. I knew
very few women my age who were aging
naturally in the hair department.
But beyond
feeling fed up with the process and the
money I'd been spending, I realized as I
asked myself the questions above, that I was
curious. What might it be like to show who I
am at this moment to the world? Would
people treat me differently? If so, who?
Strangers? Friends? How would I feel about
myself if I moved against the tide? What
would my hair look like? Would it be the
beautiful white my husband's mother could
justly call her crowning glory? Or the gray
of a worn out building? And would
it matter?
I noodled on
these questions and more until the day I was
accepted into graduate school. I had been
laid off from my job and decided to pursue a
master's in counseling. I expected to be
older than the majority of my classmates by
at least a generation. Regardless of my hair
color, they would figure that one out.
I knew
that the program would involve much
self-exploration. And I reasoned that if I
ever expected my future clients to be
willing to be completely real with me, I
would have to do the same during my
training.
It felt like
a monumental decision, pledging to be real,
to be honest, to be fully myself and to deal
with the consequences from the core of who I am.
Letting my
hair go white became the external symbol of that
decision.
I learned to be open to all the
comments and looks being white-haired evokes. Instead of getting upset when a
salesperson ignores me (which they do all
the time), I simply walk up and ask for what
I want.
In some
venues I am invisible and in others, unique.
Many women
tell me, "Oh, white hair looks wonderful on
you, but I'd look terrible."
Well, the
truth is, after three years, I'm still not
sure I think I look "wonderful." But that
isn't the point.
I believe
that white hair has allowed me to experience
life in a different way, a new way, a
challenging, even fun way. It has kept me from
lounging
comfortably in a rut and forced me to
acknowledge not who I wish I were, but who I
am. The quick looks or lack of them, the
assumptions made at a second's glance have
fueled my natural inclination to disprove
stereotypes.
I love it
when a young person (as a couple of my
classmates did) says that knowing me has
helped erase some of their fear of aging.
If you worry
about change, about what people will think
if you do what is close to your heart but
distant from the norm, consider what you
may discover if you make the choice to go
ahead.
Can you detect a
fake smile?
Do you consider yourself gullible? Do
you make friends only to find you don't
particularly care for them? Do you wish you
understood other people better?
If you answered
"yes," to any of these questions, you might
want to
take this test. It asks you to
distinguish between real and fake smiles.
Sounds easy, but it's not.
Why should you
care? Failing to discriminate might be one
reason for some of the problems above. You
may want to spend more time before making
snap decisions about people. Give yourself
distance and listen to your internal voice
too.
They did it!
Bennett Ross has found the strength to tell
the truth behind his severe stuttering
Unfortunately for Bennett Ross, his happy
childhood was interrupted by an event so
tragic and traumatic, that it resulted in
relentless stuttering.
Bennett held on
to the secret of the trauma his
entire life as he struggled to live with the
aftermath--speech patterns that seemed to
alienate people, a poor self-image and the
pain of feeling like an outsider in every
circumstance.
He tried many
methods to stop stuttering, but none worked.
Finally, he
decided to face the trauma that had been a
part of him regardless of how hard he tried
to ignore it. He decided to write about it
and put his story on the web.
"I initially
started writing as part of my self-healing,"
he said. "But I thought it would be good to
put it on the web as it could help or
inspire somebody.
It was not easy
to tell the truth to the world, but in doing
this, Bennett is offering a gift--helping
others to understand the long-term price we
can pay for something that is not our fault.
Read his story at
www.BennettRoss.com and perhaps it will
inspire you to claim a truth of your own.
Leave 'em
laughing
This woman's husband had been slipping in
and out of a coma for several months, yet
she had stayed by his bedside every single
day. One day, when he came to, he motioned
for her to come nearer.
As she sat by him, he whispered, eyes full
of tears, "You know what?
You have been with me through all the bad
times.
When I got fired, you were there to support
me.
When my business failed, you were there.
When I got shot, you were by my side.
When we lost the house, you stayed right
here.
When my health started failing, you were
still by my side . . . You know what?"
"What dear", she gently asked, smiling as
her heart began to fill with warmth.
"I think you're bad luck."
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