If, like me, your local grocery store has a pharmacy then you will no doubt be familiar with the inevitable wall of hair colour. Each box is endowed with a dazzling assortment of windswept women glossily coiffed and obviously delirious with joy over their new arrangement. Along with the full gamut of hues there are an assortment of pouting women, innocent-looking women and the Just so damn pleased looking women. Are you with me so far?
You’ve seen this wall I am sure, perhaps you have even perused it and come away slightly baffled as all the women on the boxes look slightly similar. Cousins perhaps?
Needless to say I am not opposed to hair colour at all. I am all for it, indeed one might even suggest that I am a fan of the crowning glory and all its achievements. Any colour is valid whether it be green or black or marbled. That though is not my the subject of my blog. Today my concern is the shadowy dark corner of men’s colour. A sad little spot sat mockingly among the rainbows of beauteous creatures. An almost pointless section that sports only three choices, Black, Grecian formula and a kind of dung brown.
Apart from a disastrous Halloween when I dyed my hair a kind of gravy colour I have not seriously thought to change hair hue.
But then, I am not exactly inspired to do so either. The men in the aforementioned, sad section have cheap plastic smiles. They look neither impressed nor pouty, windswept, or overjoyed with their coifs of dung-brown, Grecian or black. It seems a sad fate for men that all they have to look forward to, in the follicle department, is grey grizzled tendrils. It aint easy being a man.