Fate in the New Year

I am become an accidental redhead.  Though some might say it was meant to be.

Some of us might be upset by such a thing, a sudden reddening of the hair. 

After all, we go to our hairdressers for the usual.  Like always, our girl slathers gobs of glop atop our crowns like licorice frosting on a vanilla cupcake.  

For the uninitiated among you (the un-vain who don’t color their gray) (oh, and the men) it is normal to sit like a super hero on hold, under fluorescent lights with your cape on backwards waiting for the gooey chemical concoction to make everything old new again.

And the gunk is never the color of the end product.  So we don’t worry if we look like we are about to tar a rooftop, right?  No!  A biological miracle is transpiring under the plastic – add asphalt to white roots and they come out blonde!

I have been through it a billion times.  Or so.  Easy peasy.  Old Carolyn in.  Young gray-free Carolyn out.

So I don’t know if some crazy New Year’s bug bit me, but this time my girl and I agreed to “create some contrast.”  To add some low-lights for depth and texture – that is hair salon speak for taking a step into the seldom-visited extremely scary realm of a teeny tiny change.

And what I now see in the sunlight is why so few boldly go where hair color is altered. 

We are not courageous.  No.  We color our gray – period.  And we live in that established safe zone.  Free parking for 50 years at the curb of the very same color we have worn since 7^th grade. 

We most certainly do not go RED!

So.  When my darling girl seated me at the sink and gently massaged my scalp, rinsing the goop away with a pleasant if Stepford-ish smile, I was unconcerned.  “I think you’re going to like it,” she said.

I always say that redheads are valued in my family.  My mom was a redhead.  Both my grandmothers were redheads.  (My stepmother is a redhead too…so this may be a story about my dad, but we will get to that another time.)

My parents and grandparents dreamed of a redheaded baby girl to carry the family flame!  But alas.  Willful from birth, I did not oblige.

Not to be denied, my mom’s feisty mom devised a plan.  She offered to keep baby Carolyn overnight so the new parents could have a break from the overdose of darling I no doubt delivered, even in my blondeness. 

But when they came to pick me up next morning…what’s this?  Redheaded baby Carolyn?!!

That’s right.  Grandma Maddux dyed my baby hair red.

I have tried to imagine that morning many times over the years.  The looks on their faces.  I picture the scene as a cartoon line drawing.  Grandma Maddux beaming with pride as she passed me back to my mom. And my parents flabbergasted, tilting back on their heels.

Did Grandma believe my parents would begin covering my blonde roots from that point forward?

And phase two – after the initial disbelief – were they angry?  Did they laugh?  Cry?  They protected me from those details.  And baby hair kind of falls away, so no real harm done.  I guess.

But it was prophetic.  My fate was sealed.  From that day forward all things have conspired to bring me to this fiery point in time.

“I didn’t expect it to be so red,” I said to my girl.

“It’s not red,” she said, and we commenced a philosophical discussion in which we had to agree that carrot-top is in the eye of the beholder. 

To her my blonde is textured with brown, and therefore in her world, blonde and brown it is. 

But I see these “low lights” as bright red lights.  Not strawberry blonde.  Not auburn.  They’re red.  And there are a lot of them.  Blonde is a shy minority. 

And if it looks red to me, it is indeed red.

But here’s the thing:  I kind of like it.  I can’t claim it’s in my genes, but it is my destiny. 


This one’s for you, Grandma!  Happy New Year!  

Grand Resolutions

Here comes 2011! Resolutions are in order:

First, I resolve to dismiss all my servants and household help. Following the example of the King- and Queen-to-be sets a proper tone for the New Year. Not so much austerity, but more frugal living.

Seems like Prince William’s dad and step-mum might consider at least whittling down their service staff of 149. With 25 of those assigned to personal duties for Prince Charles himself, it makes one wonder if he remembers how to brush his own teeth, but I’m sure it’ll come back to him. It’s like riding that proverbial bicycle. Except of course, someone else may be doing that for him too.

I resolve to make a pie. I mean to make an excellent pie, a cherry pie, or lemon meringue, with a crust that I made too. I resolve to keep trying to make a satisfactory pie crust until it is properly flaky. I hope it doesn’t take too many iterations, or that achievement could interfere with my next resolution.

I resolve to…I resolve…oh! It’s so mundane. I resolve to get even thinner in 2011! There. That’s a good way to say it. I’m getting thinner. I got a little thinner in 2010. Thinner still in 2011! I got un-thin by smidgens over time. I shall get thinner that way as well. That’s all I’m going to say about it, probably until sometime in January.

I resolve to keep my desk more orderly. As it stands, my desk provides a secret window into an unruly part of my otherwise well-arranged self. In a tidy universe, my desk orbits within a debris field of newspaper clippings, magazines, read and unread memoirs, binoculars, pens, pencils, highlighters, sunglasses and visors, (need to get shades on the windows up here!), and of course, my computer, keyboard, iPad, iPod, cell phone, and Aztec ritual wedding mask. Surely, I can do better.

I resolve to be less clumsy socially. I will answer phone calls and invitations promptly. Even though it’s never too late to say “thank you,” in 2011 I will not be saying thank you so late that it must be accompanied by an apology, an explanation, or worst of all, a white lie.

Oh yes, and I resolve to make the world a better place. Oh yeah, you say? Oh yeah? Well, yes. I will. I admit it was easier to claim this when I worked in the schools. I had the Garrison Keillor principle working for me there: Nothing you do for children is ever wasted. So I could argue that even when I had the sidewalks at the school steam cleaned, I was doing something worthwhile, something good for kids. Now that I’m retired, it may not be so straightforward. I’ll have to be more pointed in my efforts at better world building.

Maybe I should establish criteria. Otherwise, how will I know if I have, in fact, made the world a better place? Let’s see: can’t stop people from killing each other, much as I would like to. That certainly would make the world a better place, but realistically, out of my hands.

Can’t end the world’s hunger, though I hope my drop in the Food Bank’s bucket helps someone.

Looks like I’ll have to set aside the grand criteria for world improvement. Following the Royals’ example would have its limits as well. I’d better stick to the small stuff.

Therefore: I resolve to make someone smile every day. Every day. Friend or stranger. Every day I hope to make note of a smile on someone else’s face with my name on it.

I resolve to be generous with my manners, stepping out of the way, holding the door, freeing up the lane even when I don’t really want to. I don’t think I’ll be any worse off for it. I may lose a few seconds in my travels, but hope to gain miles in goodwill.

Along with that, I resolve to forgive the small transgressions of impatience or stinginess that so often abound on our bustling planet. I will rein in my righteous, long-suffering, wry, and witty self, allowing other human beings a bad day without piling on.

So the criterion is this: The world might be a better place if I behave like a better person.

Not the whole wide world of course, but the tiny sphere close by could be a tiny bit better. I’m going to try it. See me this time next year. I’ll let you know how it went.