Uh, oh. I think I just experienced the second most embarrassing moment of my entire life.
I was blissfully unaware that I was caught in the throes of my second most embarrassing experience last Sunday evening when I attended a lovely cocktail party at the home of a friend.
There were hundreds of people at the party and I was having a grand ole time visiting with old friends and making some new ones. I was vaguely aware that everyone seemed to be preoccupied with my hair-do. Admittedly, I was having one of those rare “good hair” 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. I discovered streaks of dark brown running in rivulets down both sides of my face.
That Sunday was an unseasonably 80 degrees, and I was needing a root touch up on my “naturally blond” tresses. Normally these two realities would not be connected, but a friend had introduced me to a product called “Tween Time.” It’s a tube of brownish stuff, the consistency of lipstick, which you can rub on your roots to hide the gray until you can get to the hairdresser.
I’d used it once before and no one was the wiser. Guess I never used it in temperatures as high as the national debt. It should carry a warning: “Not to be used by Mississippians when the humidity exceeds 90 percent.”
Is I wandered blithely from group to group in the sweltering heat, I kept mopping my brow. 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 nose because I would 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 it’s time to give it up, act my age, 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. Before I got out of the store 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 “natural color” comes out of a bottle.
Emily Jones is a retire journalist who edits a website for bouncing baby boomers facing retirement. She welcomes comments at http://www.deludeddiva.com .