What I did instead of working on my book

The summer before my senior year in high school, I dyed my hair. I used a product called Sun-In. It came in an orange spray bottle and cost $2.99 at CVS. 

I was working six hours a week at Arthur Treacher’s Fish and Chips, for $2.10 an hour. I was rolling in dough, hence the extravagant purchase. 

What a nice, laid back summer that was. I sat out in the backyard every day and devoured my mother’s collection of Reader’s Digest condensed books.  I applied Sun-In every hour or so. 

Good times.

Here’s how you apply Sun-In. First, make sure your mother is not around. She’ll just yell at you to stop  reading and tell you to go clean your room. If the coast is clear, quickly stick your head under the kitchen faucet, then get outside fast before she sees you. Once you're safely in the backyard, spray on a generous amount of Sun-In. Comb your hair thoroughly, until the product is evenly distributed. If your hair is sticky and lemony, and flies start following you everywhere, you know you’re done. Cook in bright sunlight until your hair feels hard and crunches when you turn your head.  Comb out dead flies. Repeat process. 

Flies loved me.

The directions on the side of the bottle said the product was suitable for blondes and light brunettes. I was neither. Before I started using Sun-In, my hair was dark brown, nearly black. When I went back to school in September, my hair was Crayola orange. People stared. Some told me they loved it. I loved it too. 

Then it started to grow out. 

In my high school graduation pictures, my hair is two-toned and newly bobbed. The hair cut was a desperate last-ditch attempt to look normal. Instead, I looked like a punked out version of the Pennsylvania Dutch Boy logo. My hair was black and glossy on top and orange and fly-away from my ears down. 

My haircut wasn't half as hot.

I avoided dying my hair after that.  I didn’t mind the few greys that invaded my personal space through my thirties. They pretty much kept to themselves, and stayed hidden under thick curtains of brown. I didn’t see them unless I searched them out. They left me alone. I left them alone.

Then one night they attacked. I awoke one morning in my early forties to find patches of grey everywhere. 

My youngest daughter, whose dark head mostly matched mine, got in the habit of sneaking up on me when I was reading, or watching television, or napping, or just plain zoning out. She liked to pluck out the springy little intruders. She got quite good at it. It was really irritating. I finally had enough, and decided it was time to dye my hair. I came home one day with my brown hair striped with gold, instead of grey. 

"The joke's on you," I said. Now she had nothing to pluck. 

She pouted. "But Ma, we don't match anymore." 

She was right. We didn't. 

I let the dye job grow out. It faded over time and I never looked even half as bad as I did back in high school. At least that's what my friends said. 

Many years have passed. I have many more greys.They sprout around my ears like cat whiskers. They spring from my ponytail like party favors. It is clear I am losing this battle. And yet, sometimes when I am standing in front of the bathroom mirror my daughter will come in. She'll rest her head against mine. Though I am much greyer, we still mostly match.