Covering that grey area.


I’ve been coloring my hair forever. Shades of red, brown, gold and even green, once, thanks to a freakishly chlorinated pool…

At one point, I realized that I couldn’t remember my original hue. So I skipped a painting session and, eeek!, a skunk came out from behind my follicles! Ô surprise! Ô almost embarrassment! Grey hair is like your PIN number, you mustn’t show it to anyone. So I continued with the chemical spill every three weeks.

But one day, I had it up to the foil with all these costly coatings. I convinced myself that I was at the age where the claw marks of father Chronos could no longer be hidden under a dry mop without pigment that absorbs the dyes as well as pressed wood and gives me the choice between three tones: “Shoe polish brownish-black “,”Auburn, don’t kid me, it’s magenta” or ” Little old lady mousy blonde.”

So I opened up the pearly gates and went the Milky Way. I was full of the great white hope for a beautiful snowy top.

At the news that I was letting my roots be eaten up by calcium, people congratulated me, but grimaced while doing so. They talked to me about courage. They talked about feminism. Yes, I was told how brave I was to show my signs of erosion.

I went «Hi ho Silver! » and got platinum strands to match the salty locks that were oozing out of my scalp with the speed of a Monday morning. It’s wrong to think that your true colors come shining through. They gloom and murk slowly with amazing laziness. It was long, it was ugly, but one day, at last, I was Christine the Grey.


And my metallic side didn’t attract and magnetize.

I hardly landed any gigs (I’m an actress) and the fire in men’s eyes was reduced to medium-low. In return, the women found me less threatening. So there was that. I was told that I was «aging» myself and from what I understood, that was not a good thing at all.


Because looking old reminds us that, next stop, is Rigor Mortis station. And we don’t want that in our planet profiteer’s minds. Plus, looking old is not exciting. We fornicate when we are young, in our planet inseminator’s minds.

Well! I refuse to believe that I won’t get down and dirty because my curtains have bleach stains!  Rock and roll is all about the rhythm, not the tones. The whites can dance. I will bang regardless of the tint of my bangs!

Whether the piano of my life falls from the eleventh floor on my Nice and Easy freshly frosted skull or sinks directly into my grey matter, I expect that I will have copulated ’till the last drop!

I’m aware that the poking of my log will slack. I’ve read about hormones that leave us with their libido between the legs. But I count on generating sex as a sexagenarian and being a jubilant jubilee! Heck! I want to throw the sponge in the throes of passion, my alabaster sweaty mane stuck on my wrinkled forehead! Snap goes my heart, while I ride my grateful shriveled mate!

All this to say that, alas, I fell off the wagon and started to hit the bottle again. I now adorn the colors of the day. No kidding, it seems that it takes off me at least six or seven years.

And looking younger is what we’re all dyeing for, isn’t it?


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