Hair, and Sex

Until now, hiding my grey hair has been a matter of principle.  I intend to die ridiculously blond even if I’m 100 years old.  I’ll be like my aunt Tita, with her 96 years she keeps her hair mahogany and her lips red.  You can see her in the photos on the Diario de viaje page on the tab in the header of this blog.  The other day I was going around looking for hair dye, and my experience was disheartening.  I went to various shops, two of which specialized in “cosmetics for the hair,” and I could have dyed my hair golden blond, copper blond, chestnut or red, but those highlights, the ones that soften my hair’s proclivity towards carrot, were nowhere to be found.  I was equally fruitless in the search for an electric shaver for my son, with that trend these days among youth to shave more than beards and mustaches.

Discouraged, on my way back I stopped by my friend Sandra’s.  I thought we’d take turns venting our frustrations, but she’d just returned from the Spanish embassy where they’d imposed new requirements for citizenship… of course, the hair dye and electric shaver thing hardly seemed serious.  But it was Sandra herself who shook off pessimism and, with no explanation, gave me a case full of CDs with one sentence:  “So you can relax.”

The case was large and full.  So, when I had a moment, I sat down to pick through its contents.  Sandra was right, because therein was Sex and The City, that monument to frivolity that settled me down better than a jar of prozac, and even made more bearable that incipient yet unmistakable grey line that expands in my hair.  It ain’t always that deep.

Translated by:  Yoyi el Monaguillo

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