The deepest red

“These highlights would look really pretty in your hair”, he insisted.

He probably didn’t know she was a virgin. A hair colour virgin, that is. Over the years, these lovely locks had known a friendly pat, playful tugs and even passionate tussles. But they had to yet to even face a hair dryer, much less an array of potions and pastes.

Was this a mid-life crisis? An ill advised attempt to retain her vanity that felt threatened with each silver strand? What was next, she wondered – finding an intern to flirt with? A giggle escaped her before she could realize.

The guy next to her caught her eye and raised an eyebrow. She, of the salt and pepper hair (that was fast becoming more salty, less peppered), cocked her head, and smiled at him. And the look on his face, reminded her why people called her dimples her best feature.

She’d decided. She wouldn’t try to hold on to her beauty. For it was always hers, with her and within her. But she sure as hell could reclaim her whimsy, one bold choice at a time.

“Make it red”, she told her stylist. “Your deepest red.”

 

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