The jig is up
Uh, oh.Â I think I just experienced the second most embarrassing moment of my entire life.Â
I was blissfully unaware thatÂ I was caught in the throes of my secondÂ most embarrassing experienceÂ last Sunday evening when I attended a lovelyÂ cocktail party at the home of a friend.
There were hundreds of people at the party and IÂ wasÂ having a grand ole time visiting with old friends and making some new ones.Â I was vaguely aware that everyone seemed to be preoccupied with my hair-do.Â Admittedly, IÂ was having one of those rare â€śgood hairâ€ť days, but judging from the stares, it seemed everyone was in awe of my hair that evening. Curious.
The sad truth is, I was experiencing a meltdown that horrified me when I got home and began to take off my make-up. IÂ discovered streaksÂ of dark brown running in rivulets down both sides of my face.Â
That Sunday was an unseasonably 80 degrees, and I was needing a root touch up on my â€śnaturally blondâ€ť tresses.Â Normally these two realities would not be connected, but a friend had introduced me to a product called â€śTween Time.â€ťÂ Itâ€™s a tube of brownish stuff, the consistency of lipstick, whichÂ you can rub on your roots to hide the gray until you can get to the hairdresser.
Iâ€™d used it once before and no one was the wiser. Guess I never used it inÂ temperatures as high as the national debt.Â It should carry a warning: â€śNot to be used by Mississippians when the humidity exceeds 90 percent.â€ť
Is I wandered blithelyÂ from group to group Â in the sweltering heat, I kept mopping my brow.Â And people kept looking at me strangely. What? You never saw a lady perspire before?
I wish I had gone to the restroom to powder my noseÂ because I wouldÂ have discovered those tell-tale streams of black oozing down both sides of my temples. The color had slid right off my roots.
And no one told me. I called my hairdresser Monday morning and demanded an appointment immediately. The whole ordeal was probably a sign that itâ€™s time to give it up, act my age,Â and just go gray.
This fiasco was almost as bad as my all-time worst experience which occurred last year when I pulled a hoodie out of the dryer and dashed to the grocery store.Â Before I got out of the storeÂ someone alerted me that I had a bra dangling from my hood.
The jig is up, and my hairdresser and the whole world knows that my â€śnatural colorâ€ť comes out of a bottle.
Emily Jones isÂ a retire journalist who edits a website for bouncing baby boomers facing retirement.Â She welcomes comments at http://www.deludeddiva.com.
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