Here’s to Your Health
I put the supplements up on the counter at the health food store. My eight month old was positioned on my hip and my 11 year old was standing next to me, bored and put out by the endless errands we had to run that day.
On the counter was Kava Kava for relaxation, B12 for energy, Vitamin D for my immune, Psyllium powder for constipation, and Black Cohosh for menopausal symptoms. My son was fidgeting and trying to grab whatever was colorful on the counter. The owner had yet to come to the register. I handed the baby off to his sister and said, “hold your brother for a second, I forgot something.” She obliged begrudgingly, still annoyed with his existence, ruining her standing as an “only child.”
Natural Hair Dye…Oh, the Irony!
It was the box of hair dye that caught my attention. I was intrigued by the notion of natural and without “harsh chemicals.” Being a child of the sixties, I was captivated by the idea that something like hair dye could be construed as being a natural product. Other than Henna, I didn’t really consider that anyone would be able to chemically alter the color of hair without using chemicals. I was born a natural redhead and though it felt like torture as a child, I grew into the color.
My mother used to say, “you can’t buy that color in a bottle.” But, here in the health food store, her statement was being proven wrong. My hairline had started showing the signs of aging by the time I was forty, and I had resisted. I refused to believe I was going grey. Or, in my case, white. And yet there it was every morning, around the temples, a little bit more with each passing week.
How Old is Your Grandson?
The store owner finally appeared behind the counter, apologizing profusely, as my daughter rolled her eyes at me and handed off her brother.
“Did you find everything you needed?” she asked, out of breath and overly friendly.
“Yes, thank you.” I replied.
As she scanned the supplements and bagged them she smiled at my son who was once again, eager to leap from my arms and busy himself with the cluster of colorful tins and wrapped goodies on the counter.
“How old is your grandson?” she asked without missing a beat.
I pulled the baby’s arm back from launching a full assault on the stack of “natural” chocolate chip cookies and switched him to the other hip.
I didn’t have to look at my daughter to know she was beside herself with amusement and that inside she was indeed “laughing out loud.” I wasn’t sure how to react. I was flawed by the assumption and stared back at the stack of hair color products.
Wasn’t I just over there, coming to terms with my own white hairs taking over my temple? Didn’t I just contemplate for the first time in my life, the idea of using hair dye to reverse the signs of ageing? Could I actually be upset with this woman for stating what appeared to be the obvious?
I was only 43 though. Who is a grandmother these days at 43? I would have had my daughter at 20 and she, in turn, had her baby at 23. Yet, she was standing next to me, age 11. I scanned the products on the counter like a robot using a laser assessment tool. The terminator with vision that could predict their future usefulness to revive my youthful appearance, supercharge my immune system, cut down on hot flashes and make my skin glow. I thought about canceling the order.
When In Doubt…
“Actually he’s my son,” I said with a voice that could probably cut a diamond.
Hurriedly the woman began packing my products, letting me know the total, asking if I wanted to be on their email list and putting pamphlets for various other products into the bag. I stood there paralyzed for a moment. Had I not seen this coming? My hair was turning white for god’s sake.
Redheads do go earlier than every other color, proven fact. I handed the baby again over to my daughter, and walked over to the hair color. I picked up one that was labeled “warm auburn”. From the picture on the box, it appeared to be the closest thing to what my mother may have been talking about all those years ago. I put the box on the counter and added it to my order.
“That’s a perfect choice,” the frazzled woman said.
“Perhaps,” I said, “but either way, red or white, I’m still old enough to be his mother.”