(My grandmother, my mom, and me (age 3), admiring my newborn sister, 1982.)
In this week’s post about dyeing my blue lace sweatshirt, you might have noticed that my roots are showing. That’s how they look about four weeks after my monthly hair appointment, when I rotate between all-over color and highlights every other month. I love the color and leave the salon feeling beautiful, but a few weeks later, the grey strands are poking through and I try my best to disguise them with eyeshadow until the next appointment.
Those grey hairs are my birthright, passed down from my grandmother, to my mother, and now to me. My grandmother first went grey as a teenager and everyone knew her with white hair for the rest of her life. When I was a girl, I would go shopping with Nonnie, and without fail, we always ran into someone she knew, since she grew up in San Antonio and lived there her entire life. “I recognized your hair,” they’d say, and she would just smile.
And my mom colors her hair, and has for as long as I can remember. The picture above, taken days after the birth of my younger sister, shows her with frosted hair (it was the 80s), when normally, she wears it very dark. My hair was blonde back then, much like Rhys’ hair now, but it has darkened over the years, and to color the greys, I have to go even darker.
Until now.
I’m tired of feeling embarrassed, tired of feeling unkempt and not pretty when my roots show through after covering them monthly with very expensive dye. I wish there was a magic pill I could swallow to rid my head of grey hair, but there isn’t, and there’s nothing I can do about it, so I’ve decided to accept it and get on with my life. I had my regular hair appointment yesterday, and instead of hiding those greys, I’m letting them shine. I’m growing out my hair color, whatever it might be these days, and I’m not looking back.
(Subtle grey.)
I’m excited about this new phase, and to make the transition a bit easier, my stylist added highlights to blend the line between the old and new growth. I’m hoping this plan will carry me through the next few months as my greys continue to grow. I had a hard time selling her on my decision at first, and she firmly told me, “You’re too young to be grey,” when I called her last week.
But that’s not true at all, because obviously I am grey, and instead of hiding and fearing it, I’m embracing it wholeheartedly. I’m 35, with two young boys, and I’m healthy and full of life. I don’t feel old, and in many ways, I feel more confident and beautiful than I did in my twenties. I can do this, and it’s just hair, after all. But I’m so tired of being bound by a bottle of dye, so I’m letting it go. Not completely, because I think I’ll need some highlights now and then to brighten things up, but at least I won’t spend hours of my day in a chair once a month, my head wrapped in foil and strange-smelling chemicals, only to wash the expensive dye down the drain each time I wash my hair.
I found a large online presence for women going grey, and many of their stories inspired me as I begin this new journey. Here are a few that truly resonated with me.
Sara’s story of going grey in her 30s, after the birth of her second baby.
And a story, in six parts, of a 41-year-old woman going grey with highlights. I’m hoping my hair will look like hers. Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6.
I hope to share pictures with you after each appointment, so stay tuned! I’m also linking up with Allie from Everyday Adventures as she begins a new hair journey of her own.
(My altered blue sweatshirt in the bright winter sun.)
At Thanksgiving, I took advantage of the sales and bought Weston Wear’s Colorblocked Lace Pullover from Anthropologie in the navy blue backing. I’ve bought several things from this brand before, and never had a problem laundering them. But this time, for some reason, the blue under the lace bled onto the fabric when I washed it according to the instructions. I thought about returning it, but the navy blue style was no longer available, so I decided to keep it and try my hand at dyeing it.
(The blue underlay bled onto the fabric all along the edges.)
This was my first time dyeing clothing, but October Rebel has written about dyeing clothes successfully, so I thought I had nothing to lose. My hope was to color everything a dark blue to match the backing under the lace. At the very least, I could always wear my new sweatshirt around the house, so I was excited to try it out.
(I used Rit Dye in Denim Blue.)
I used Rit’s Denim Blue color instead of Navy after reading the reviews on Amazon. Most people found the Navy turned out purple, and I was hoping for a deeper shade of blue.
(The dye foams when added to water.)
I put an old basin in my sink, filled it with hot water, and added a third of the dye bottle before immersing the blouse. After letting it soak for an hour and washing my shirt, I realized the color was uneven in some areas, so I repeated the same steps the next day. This time, I stirred it repeatedly as the shirt soaked, and that helped to disperse the color more evenly.
After an hour of soaking, I washed the top again, and it turned out as well as I had hoped!
(A detail of the blue lace.)
I’m so happy that I was able to salvage my new shirt, and I wore it to James’ birthday party on Saturday. It’s soft and comfortable, and the perfect shade of blue.
(James taking a flying leap at his birthday party.)
James turns five today, and we celebrated with a gymnastics party over the weekend. It was fun, and crazy, and stressful, and it left me reflecting on children’s parties, in general.
This was the first actual birthday party we’ve thrown for James, since his birthday is near Christmas, alongside Ryan’s birthday and my dad’s, and we normally celebrate with a small family party at home. This year, five seemed like a big deal, so we invited a few children from school and the neighborhood and held the party at our local gymnastics school, our home away from home. I followed the “age + one” rule and invited six other children, which with our two equalled eight kids altogether. With a large group of children, you really need structured activities to keep them busy, so I was thrilled that our gym hosts parties on Saturday afternoons.
It was too easy, and we just supplied the cake (I made cupcakes), party favors, and a tablecloth. Everything was set up when we arrived, and the gym provided drinks and cups. They don’t recommend serving food besides the cake, since that cuts into the actual playtime. So, we arrived, everyone played and bounced and jumped and ran, a gymnastics teacher led a few games with a giant parachute, we ate the cupcakes, opened presents, and left. In and out in less than two hours. Piece of cake!
It wasn’t fancy or Pinterest-worthy at all. Somehow, my cupcake mix only made 21 instead of 24, a few spilled or melted in the car on the way to the party, and my round tablecloth didn’t even begin to cover the old, rectangular tables, but it all worked out and the kids had fun.
I’ve been to all sorts of children’s birthday parties, from simple, first-year parties at home to lavish, over-the-top affairs at rented-out museums, and they are all pretty much the same. You’ve got a bunch of overstimulated children, hyped up on sugar and adrenaline, and frazzled parents running around after them. Kids’ parties, in my experience, aren’t fun at all, and I usually dread them. I suspect most adults feel the same way deep down inside, even if they aren’t ready to admit it out loud yet.
When I handed an invitation to one mom, she sighed and told me that she’s never had an actual party for her son, because he’s the youngest of three and she just can’t. I totally empathized with her, and I felt so much relief, too. Birthday parties are hard, like so many other things that come along with having children, and there’s a lot of pressure to have the perfect day for your child.
I really believe in doing what works best for you, and for us, that was some boxed cupcakes with melted icing and an hour of screaming and bouncing at the local gym. James had a great day and played his heart out, and maybe when he turns ten, we’ll do it again.
