I made up my mind and dyed my hair. I was tired of trying to hide the unsightly gray around my temples. It betrayed my age. My scalp and skin reacted to the dye adversely and now I have a rash on my ear and my scalp is itching like mad.
And for what? The youthful black hair grins at me triumphantly, expecting me to be pleased. This is what you wanted, it declares, satisfied with itself. But I respond with only a sigh and a grimace. As I stroke the painted hair at my temples, I frown with wonder at my displeasure. I feel like I’m wearing a mask, a costume. As much as I despised the gray hair, I miss it. My gray hair, though worrisome, was honest.
Funny that I should feel ashamed of my newly black hair. I am wearing a lie on my head. My glory has diminished. Where I searched for headbands to hide the gray, now I search for them to hide the black. How can I dislike the absence of gray more than the gray itself?
My lesson: The truth is not always pretty, but at least it’s real. I realized I’d rather have an ugly truth than a pretty lie.