Grey Matters
My new bio-pic by Darryl Vance.
There I was in March 2020, fully on-trend for the first time in my adult life; I could cook, bake, take care of animals, grow food, write to my heart's content and be happy out indulging my inner introvert.
My work-from-home life didn't need much adjustment; we weren't short of loo roll, learning Japanese didn't appeal to me, nor did taking up the ukulele, as for faffing around with yeast to make sourdough bread, goodnight Irene!
Summer came in April and with (sometimes reluctant) help from the man himself, the vegetable garden was extended, the hen house upgraded, gates, posts and pillars painted as we delighted in our remote cottage home and small farm where it was easy to establish a weekly routine.
As a woman of a certain age, not wanting to go by the Covid wayside, sartorially speaking, I engaged in a vanity routine on Thursday evenings in preparation for the take out and wine date on Fridays.
Retrograde steps were taken; legs and other hairy bits got shaved instead of salon-waxed, depilatory creams employed, (reminiscent of flat-sharing in Dublin of the 80's!), extensive pedicures, bath soaks, age-defying face masks, serums and body oils were lathered on with great affect, yeah, took years off me, thanks for asking.
The only one fly in the unctuous elixirs was the hair; shoulder length mousy-brown, dyed for twenty years, I'd sometimes accepted it was on borrowed time. Over a glass or three I'd swear to the ones that love me best that when the time came I would just pull a Sinéad O'Connor; none of the few shades lighter, going gently into the grey night for me, nope, it would be all or nothing.
By the end of April, the shops had run out of colour but my darling sister sourced a stop-gap auburn in Dublin. The semi-permanent, home-colour was fine for a week but ten days later I had three-tone-locks like a piebald pony that was interfered with by a badger or a raccoon!
On a Tuesday evening, May 18th, 7pm, with a lot of instruction from me, the man himself shaved my head. To say the result was shocking would be an atrocious lie. My blood ran cold with the fright; a little tear ran down my cheek while I clasped my hands on top of my stubbly head, keeping the fringe and two side bits, the rest was standing up, sticking out; think boot boys, corner boys, old women in mental asylums who cut their own hair, as far from beautiful Sinéad O'Connor's shiny pate as can be imagined.
I went from being a morning person to dreading them; I'd reverse into the bathroom so as not to catch a bed-head glimpse of myself in the mirror. I experimented with scarves, baseball caps, hairbands, anything to take away the bald look, but soon resigned myself to the fact that the only thing that would alter it was time.
And here I am, eighteen months later, on trend again! My regrowth is mostly white, and oh the excitement of watching roots grow compared to dread, the liberation of never having to sit for an hour in a salon, and the added bonus to know I'm in the company of famous and beautiful women who are now flaunting their grey; Diane Keaton, Glenn Close and Sarah Jessica Parker are revealing their true colours, and peacocking it on the red carpet at the recent Cannes film festival in all their finery with greying locks were Andie MacDowell, a mane of grey curls around her pretty face, Helen Mirren had her greyness tied up in a chignon, even Jodie Foster let the grey be seen in streaks.
And if they're reading this in north Galway where I was reared; 'tis far from Cannes, film stars, film festivals and red carpets you were reared, they'll say…
UP SKEHANA!