My dad, who was quite hard of hearing, yelled in the middle of a crowd of people who were conversing in whispering voices, "You die your hair!
"No," I replied. "Rosie dies my hair."
I've been grey for decades. Picking on widows and orphans and defending misogynists in order to keep a roof overhead followed by the implosion of the law firm in which I was a partner were the little troubles I survived. Those who know me understand why I refuse to revisit, much less retell, my personal tales of woe. Suffice to say, my follicles rebelled.
When your natural hair color is nearly black, going cold turkey on the hair die isn't wise, unless you plan to join a circus sideshow as "the skunk lady." Like every intelligent woman (vanity is linked to the smart gene), my hair color devolved in stages.
I splurged on highlights. I gradually acquired tawny hair.
Then I moved to Dowagiac. No Rosie.
I greeted the security guard at the courthouse with the phrase, "Yes; I have orange hair."
He waved me through the metal detector, after burying his head between his elbows. His shoulders shook. I was THE laughing stock.
Not "I Love Lucy" orange. "Day-glo" orange.
Okay, so I embellished. It wasn't THAT bad.
Unless it was on your head.
It was bad enough to return to Dowagiac, being called Janie, rather than Jane (I was a LAW PROFESSOR for God's sake), but now I had orange hair, which was exacerbated by the iron content in the city water. My head was fluorescent.