Being a redhead or more accurately, an auburn head, has its fair share of advantages and it must be said a few disadvantages, the latter headlining in my youth. As a young girl, I was bullied by several boys in my year who found it fun to nickname me Rusty Red, the inference being I’d stayed out too long in the rain. The nickname stuck and it became my personal brand. Not my storytelling skills, I hasten to add, nor my top of class talent at touch typing. I recall asking my mum if I could dye my hair black, only to be met with a firm no, that one day, I would realise my hair was an advantage. Ignoring her words, I bought a long wig – lovely black, static nylon, and tucked up my tresses, glorying in my new nylon mane. My parents did not question this. It was just another thing from ‘our Dee.’ I looked like a cheap Cher tribute act.
I made it to university and suddenly all bets were off. My crowning glory – masses of long, thick, auburn hair, turned into the asset I had waited so long for.
Huzzah! I had arrived.
No more gazing wistfully at gleaming rows of black hair colour, calling me to buy and dye. Every day brought a new compliment, often several; strangers even daring to stroke my tresses, students asking if my hair was real, open envy abounding.
The black wig made its way to the back of my wardrobe, occasionally fished out for fancy dress.
Even now as I sashay in to my 64th birthday, my hair has stayed true to its colour. So, if you see me, the answer is, no I don’t dye it and yes, it is my hair, every strand of it. At a hairdressers recently, my stylist informed me that the ‘gentleman at reception can’t believe this is your real hair. He says you must dye it.’ Safe to say after a sharp word from me, he retracted his accusation.
It’s a family affair
Where do I get my hair from, I hear you ask. Dad was a fellow ginner who right up to his final weeks had a full shock of auburn hair with white sideburns. As a proud Yorkshire man he would react indignantly to any suggestion that he dyed it. ‘Do you think I’m that vain?’ he would scoff, adding that no Yorkshire man would reclaim their youth via a splash of colour. He did add a few expletives I can’t repeat in good company, to reinforce his annoyance at being accused; a Yorkshire man who dabbled with the dye.
My brief flirtation with short and snazzy
Shortly after giving birth to my second son Mark, I was hit with what would now be diagnosed as post-natal depression. Everything felt overwhelming from feeding this bundle of noisy joy that looked upon nocturnal hours as play time to hauling myself out of bed after a whopping three hours sleep. In my confused thinking, I deduced my hair was the problem. Too much of it, what to do with it, ages spent drying it. The solution was to have it all chopped off. I knew as my tresses were hitting the floor that I’d made a massive mistake. Stopping mid lopping was not an option unless I wanted to look like Philip Oakey from The Human League, that is.
I learned during this destabilising episode that short hair was much harder to maintain than long hair. Wash, style, spritz became the new norm, replacing my previous routine of wash and scoop into mum regulation ponytail. It was two years before my hair had resumed normal duties and since then I’ve not strayed into long lopping.
Aren’t you a bit too old for long hair?
As I teeter on the edge of 64, my hair is not as thick as that of my youth. However, I still sport a decent head of long hair. Speckles of white, a frisson of frizziness and sometimes gazing in horror at my hairbrush after an over generous groom, but it’s still long hair, which brings me onto that age question.
The person who asked me this a few months ago regretted their rudeness dressed up as inquisitiveness after I delivered a stern lecture which had strong shades of feminist Dee, from my university days.
At what point should a woman have her hair styled and short because heaven forbid, a woman in her 50s or her 60s having long hair?
My answer to this is what it has always been.
It’s up to us femme fatales to decide when, why or if we succumb to the chop. Fashion advice can take a hike when it comes to the rules, wrapped up as ‘style guidance’ ‘latest trends for older women’. It seems an obvious thing to say, but it’s your hair, your life and you do with it what you want. If short and snazzy is for you, blaze that trail sister! If long and lush is your preference, I purr and preen with you. No person should tell a woman she’s too old for long hair and if the rule book dictates we hang our long hair in shame, at any age, then tear it up.
Up or down? Up to you
“Love your hair pinned up, you should do it more often,”
To
“Why have you pinned up all your lovely long hair. It’s your crowning glory!”
And
“Everybody recognises you in business for your long hair so why are you pinning it up?”
To the first comment, I smile graciously and thank the person but say that when normal weather has resumed, down goes my hair. To the second and third, I have either declined to comment or delivered a restrained lecture, subject: my hair, my choice.
So next time you see me, let’s hope I’m sporting the long look as it will signal that the intense sun of recent weeks has calmed down and the seasons are back to behaving.
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