Roots: A mini-series in my middle part

Not Really My Hair

Not Really My Hair

At the moment, I’m looking a little Kunte Kinte. Which is to say, my roots are showing. Not my ethnic roots. Those are always readily apparent, what with the cliche nose and the frizzy hair. I mean my hair. My brunette is showing. And I am none too happy about it.

There are a few problems with my Alex Haley issue: first, I am in The Hamptons for the summer, while my “hair guy,” Crieghton, is in NYC. Second, I will be in NYC tomorrow, but Creighton (so fabulous, he only goes by the single moniker) will be doing the cover of Out Magazine and so cannot tend to my tresses. And third, every time I have to get my hair dyed, it costs too much and takes too long.

Seriously, three hours of my life disappears (along with my roots) every time I head to the hairdressers. And I’m also parting with WAY more money than I’d like to admit. All in the pursuit of….well, I don’t really know.

Looking good? Looking blond? Recapturing my childhood, when I was truly blond with lovely streaks? And if the latter, at what age does long Sarah Jessica Parker hair start looking ridiculous? Forty-five? Forty-seven? Take a look at Dyan Cannon— however old she is – she missed the cut-off.

Speaking of cutting it off. I think not. What would I flick at, nervously, while waiting on long lines? What would I flip at, annoyingly, on hot days? What would I do with lo those many hours I now spend worrying about humidity and good hair days and bad hair days…and oh yes, the roots.

But what’s a formerly real, currently faux blond to do? I can’t continue to wear my vertical hat. You know, that stripe down the middle of my head. One option would be to let it grow out. But then, for about a year, I’d look like a middle aged wanna be punkster who’d striped her head. I could dye it all my natural color while I wait for it to grow in, but I don’t know what my actual color is anymore, and I’m sure I wouldn’t like it if I did.

Those of you who have faced the “what can I do without my trusted hairdresser” dilemma will feel my pain. You will know the terror I feel as I walk into a new salon. Will they make me look like Rosanne Rosannadanna? Will they give me streaks with all the subtlety of Lily Munster? Will I end up looking like a cross between Barbra Striesand in her Main Event days and Bette Midler in her…well, and Bette Midler?

But the reverse skunk-head look is not for me. So I am steeling myself for a new hairdresser, a new chance to look fabulous, a potential disaster that may take months to grow out.

Wish me luck.

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