Colour Me Modest
Article by
Jo Loughlin.
Jo Loughlin used to have long flowing hair that she could sit on. Following a bout of pneumonia and a prolonged period of exhaustion, she had it all chopped off in an exclusive Parisian hairdressing salon. It was a relief to have a new pixie crop and it suited her. But did this Second Springer have the audacity to stop colouring it? Read her testimonial and find out.
Alright. I’m almost 50, and it’s been a long time since I have had ‘virgin’ hair.
Two years ago my hair was still long enough to sit upon and there was the discreet Scandinavian blonde highlight job, executed every six weeks. Maintained in absolute secrecy and nailed up in the bathroom at midnight, I never stooped to the shame of crochet through the punctured rubber hat provided in the box. I worked with a small treasured paintbrush. Licking the violet mess myopically through the front of my hair by lamplight in daubs, drips and confident licks, Scandinavia was written large across various territories of my rat blonde head. I convinced myself that the halo of stuttering bleached strands perfectly gilded timeless, sun-kissed outdoor Jo. I married late, but soon enough for my husband to screw his courage to the sticking place, twisting a toe in the sand and fingering the door handle, ‘Is is a matter of money Love? I’ll pay for the salon to fix it you know?’ His bravado grew over time and he became increasingly rude about my talents as a home colourists. Branding him a woman-hating super-beast, jealous of the fact I HAD BLOODY HAIR, I ended the assault and went back to my real roots.
In 2009 I fell ill with double pneumonia. Completely self inflicted by ministering all winter to three fat, ungrateful horses at -10C, I was nonetheless a picture of violent self-pity. ‘If this were 1900 I’d be dead’ I bleated in a snotty groan from the bed. This pronouncement didn’t seem to upset anyone unduly and the family developed a strange, far away look at my tenth reminder of limits of Edwardian medicines. Exhausted by a further three months of weepy moaning and what I drummed up as his direct role in generating my illness, Richard took me to Pari s. He figured that even I couldn’t be pissed off in Paris. He was right. On various drugs and inhaling steroids through a scuba sized masks, I was high as the viewing deck of the Eifel Tower, could stagger about 400 yards in one afternoon, and best of all- I couldn’t speak a word. He had a marvellous time and rarely referred to my communication notebook, no matter how wildly I waved it about like a limp guppy.
Hysterical with tiredness, I tripped on beyond sad and sick, to a strange benign country-of-Being, where suddenly anything seemed possible. I decided to have my hair cut off to the scalp. Limping the cobbles of a small side street slathered in Virginia Creeper, we beheld a hairdresser of such riveting character, that even through the shop window it was clear- she was our woman. Madame had steely, straight hair bobbed to the jaw and was stabbing expertly with a small flashing blade into the barnet of a frightened looking little Parisian woman. Her client took the odd duck and parry, but it was no good. The tiny victim’s shoulders were seized and she was screwed back into a compliant position, a sharp knee placed for purchase in the centre of her back. Richard posted me through the door with an enthusiastic shove and took off to take a proper look at the city.
‘Coupez tout’ I mouthed to Madame and her staff, indicating with the international sign for scissors, the fingers used as props. Madame smiled and clipped off to a corner where she consulted with her two assistants in hushed but animated terms. She returned with a small pamphlet showing a rather nice, shaggy but short haircut. ‘Bon’ I whispered. ‘Non’ she hammered at me, I could see the veins in her eyeballs swimming around, ‘pour vous- NON!’ I was steered into a wash chair where her rather odd husband (Gandalf meets Gucci) performed some sort of deeply stirring hair porn with shampoo and conditioner for about 20 minutes, ravaging my scalp with a frolic of experienced French fingers. I would have left the salon and married him, if I had been able to stand. There followed what can only be described as the most celebratory, enjoyable coiffure of my life. I was teased with delicious coffee, a few chocolates and a short, pixie hair cut that took about an hour. Having the hank of a metre of hair lopped off at the very outset was liberation beyond words. We later sent it to the Princess Trust, where it was made into little wigs for children being treated for various cancers. Very nice to know. I had arranged to meet the husband in a small café (as you do) right across from Notre Dame at 6pm. He fell through the tables as he approached, and judging by the fact that I was forced into a spirited attempt to run around the hotel room later that night- he liked my hair.
So, to the dye joy proper. Finding myself shorn of what my mother had once referred to as my ‘only beauty’, I grew uncertain of myself and decided to perk things up a bit. Yes, I used these unstable, incendiary words at the salon. The first hint of grey was appearing, so why not metamorphise my staid crop to a butter thick field of auburn leaves? Hair you could run barefoot through. I always loved that saying. Anyway - idiot prose aside, intent on laying a devastating tint on my temples, I burst in through the front door of an unknown hairdresser like a hyperactive child. It’s important to point out that since returning from Paris, a variety of stylists had given me the most uncompromising haircuts know to man or womankind. I would eagerly proffer pictures of myself in Paris in my first wondrous do, and the hairdressers would laugh in their delightful, tinkling way, (an edge of menace in the top notes and clearly not listening) and give me a Number 2. The number 2 was the number on Richard’s mind as he sadly surveyed me from a safe distance. ‘Jesus’ he winced away a step or two, ‘I haven’t seen anything like that since Basic Training.’
Undeterred by the latest professional’s inability to follow my ravings and meet my expectations, I nestled myself down in the chair, inexplicably excited by my first, full dye job. I’m pretty sure I mouthed ‘let’s go for it’ in the moments before the tragedy. In 45 minutes, I was transformed into a Celtic Vulcan. Flat, black- the hair appeared to have been welded to my head. Setting over the pale skin and dazed expression skinned into a smile for pride’s sake - it wasn’t good.
Tears gullied into my corneal pocket only held in place by the tight, frozen grin. In a series of skid marks and convincing waves, I went on to pick up a few groceries and three bottles of Vodka from the supermarket. The girl on the check-out was momentarily frightened. She caught the eye of a colleague and audibly tittered. Back at home, the husband was hugely supportive and lied repeatedly under oath, that it ‘wasn’t too bad’. He gifted me a hat, followed by two more even larger ones. My nine year-old daughter giggled and burst into loud tears. She wanted her mummy back. So did I. Two applications of Colour-B-4 left my hair a raw shade of Sideshow Bob, and for any woman considering this step, let me tell you, the product leaves a highly convincing smell of old egg that lingers for months - months. No one will have sex with you. Finally, I made an appointment with a hairdresser in Dublin, and gave her the instruction to shave my head bald if necessary to get as much of the damned colour out as possible.
After all these adventures in vanity, God has smiled on his fractured little female creature, and sent me a sign of his abiding love (or pity). My hair is gently turning to pure silver. It’s ignited into an edgy new sheen at the front with a single curl of pure white over one eye. When I have it cut, more and more of the lovely precious non-colour is revealed, and it’s going back to blue-shot flaxen I was as a fat little toddler. Far from robbing me of the last of my looks, the grey sets off my skin tone and brings my eye colour out too. I’ve started wearing storm-grey mascara and running some colour even into my brows. It’s hip, it’s trendy, it’s 100% authentic me, and I love it. I’ve started to notice women in my circle who routinely dye their hair, and frankly grown a bit sniffy about it. The shade always seems too dark or synthetic, the papering texture of their cheeks mocking the robust, youthful hair colour. I’m glad my experiment, blew up in my face before I framed it in Flame Fatale or Blonde Blaster.
Photo thanks to Iseult O'Brien.
