So, anyway, I have decided to eschew hair color, as I said in an earlier post. I went to have my hair cut, just cut, and just as I was paying the almost small bill, the owner/prima donna colorist, Pat, comes in and says, looking upon my hair, "I'm thinking we need to adjust the color." She saw my silvery hair creeping in on my temples, is what. "She's growing it out," Vicki the haircut lady said quickly. "Fifteen years!" taunted Pat. The owner's daughter, Helen, upon whom Pat tries every new Aveda color trick on her perfectly fine chestnut mane, smiled at me pityingly, in silent agreement with her mother.
Plainly, it's a cult. "Fifteen years for the infidel. And may her gray hairs become yellowish and frizzy. And may she grow a beard, which we'd be glad to wax for a cool $50.00."