Last week I wrote about the anxiety I get whenever it’s time to get my hair done. After much deliberation, I decided to pull the hair-dye trigger and do something truly bold. I went purple. Purple! Not all over purple, just strategically grape in areas where past appointments resulted in streaks of milk chocolate and honey shades.

I was nervous. I mean, purple hair for crying out loud! At my appointment, I pulled up a photo of what I was considering and my hairdresser, Maralyn, was excited about trying something new–I don’t know if she meant trying something new in general or trying something new for me–adding to my angst of being a boring old housewife. Anyway, her enthusiasm was contagious and confidence building, so I did it!

Four hours later I walked out into the world in a halo of burgundy. My kids love it. My husband loves it. I like it a lot. I emerged from the hair salon like one of those French perfume ads of a woman coming out of bondage (or a cocoon) and being reborn–see silly Kristen Stewart Chanel commercial for reference. The new extreme color was transcendent…until I went to the grocery store a couple of days later.

As I wondered down aisles of pretzels and refrigerated chicken breasts I counted six other women between the ages of thirty-eight and forty-five, all sporting crowns of fuchsia. Apparently, purple–at least in Utah–is the official hair color for mid-life crises in 2017.




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