🎯 My overarching daily S.M.A.R.T. goals consist of using a big word that temporarily raises my IQ by a few points, searching for the perfect dipping-in-my-coffee cookie, and growing my hair out.

I’m grateful I can still pursue that latter goal. I certainly don’t want to be like one of the Zeds in Dr. Seuss’s One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish, in possession of only one hair on my head. 🐟

💇♀️ The truth of the matter is I care about how my hair looks. If I’m not having a grand hair day, then I’m unlikely to be having a grand day. Are you the same way?

I’m not superficial — said all of us superficial people — but I like having hair that’s long enough to twist around my finger as I contemplate the great problems of our time. Things like, why isn’t “internet” spelled with an “e” instead of an “I” since we’re entering the internet to use it? And then, why is the font size on the back of potentially dangerous medicines in terms of taking too much of the aforementioned medicine so teeny-tiny? 🤔

In addition to assisting me with contemplation, my hair is crucial in the navigation of this whole aging dealio. It helps me ignore most of what I see in the mirror🪞 — fine lines, not-so-fine lines, cavernous pores, and unsightly spots that can’t be classified as beauty marks.

How? I just look at my hair. That’s my focal point. 🔎

🪄I like having hair with highlights I call racing stripes laid over no less than three available colors — blonde, red, brown — and this special sauce is crafted especially for me by my hair magician.

It’s hair to stay.

😂 Let me tell you, I’ve had so many comeuppances and moments of hair-larity because of the importance of my follicles. These have fueled plenty of humorous writings and performances. I have one for you today that’s a cut above the rest.

[Oh boy, how many puns is that? “Is there a limit on these things,” you might be asking? Let me answer. “If only. It seems I’m on a roll(er).” 🙄]

Psssttt. Come closer. Let me tell you a secret.

My previously dark brown, auburn-tinged, natural mane began going white when I was in my thirties. That gorgeous new red hue I welcomed along with my first child was my hair’s pigment, letting me know it was on the way out. That’s when I decided I would dye my own hair and — gasp! — I used boxed dye.

⌛Let us now go back, back, back in time as this story is from when I began my teaching career in 1902. All right, the year was nineteen ninety-two or thereabouts. ⌛

It was the summer of my discon-tint. (Okay, it was fall.) The school year had just begun. 🏫

I had the best of intentions, wanting to motivate and inspire teenagers to reach new heights in their educational journey. The truth of the matter is they often inspired me to reach new heights in discovering how patient I can be.

You see, high school kids aren’t actually in class to learn things like math, English, and science. That’s an opinion held only by those who have never taught adolescents. This includes politicians who have hair-brained ideas that should continue swimming around aimlessly in the think tank from which they hailed. Oh, no, my friend.

The real student motivators are to challenge, argue, and cajole. In short, they’re lawyers-in-training. No detail escapes their notice, nor commentary. ⚖️

As teachers, we get away with nothing, though we plan for everything. At no time was this more apparent to me than when I experienced a hair coloring crisis. This is when DIY should stand for, “Doing It, Y?!” as more of a question than a cute acronymic statement representing self-sufficiency.

After breaking a brush, a nail, and my heart, the mirror told me what I didn’t want to know: My new hair color was an epic fail. 🏳️The shade I had created was not to be found in nature nor in any reputable hairdresser’s shop. It could best be described as Joan Jett black with a bit of a Ronald McDonald clown red providing an eerie glow.

No matter. I was out of hair dye and time. It was now Monday Eve. Because creating the wrong hair color isn’t exactly covered by sick leave, what choice did I have? I had to head back to my classes where no less than 150 students would provide me with their unsolicited opinion. Maybe my hideous hue wasn’t as bad as I thought it was?

Hope was in the hair. 🙏

On Monday I floated in on a breeze of peroxide with just a slight hint of grapefruit conditioning treatment. It smelled rather like Florida when the snowbirds arrive, I would imagine. I was wearing one of my favorite outfits from what I call my Johnny Cash collection because I was dressed head-to-toe in black. I figured this would help me arrive like an educational ninja, stealthy, but prepared to educate. 🖤

As I walked to the front of the classroom, I was primed and ready to impart wisdom, knowledge, and even courage. The latter would be referring to me.

We were in a career unit, so I launched into a passionate description about how their English class could help them get where they wanted to go in their lives. I gave a detailed accounting of jobs that could be had, dreams that could be realized, and mysteries that could be solved.🌟

🎓This was capped off by telling my captive audience how I would go on to major in English and how that degree had unleashed a veritable floodgate of opportunity. I had them. They were all looking at me.

I savored the moment as I took a sip of my lukewarm coffee I had made at o-dark-hundred that morning. ☕As a teacher these are the moments I live for.

🙋♂️Heartened by a waving hand in the right quadrant of the room, I wasn’t even thinking about my hair-tastrophe when my student asked, “Uh, yeah, dude, has anyone ever told you, you look like that Elvira, mistress-of-the-darkness lady?”

Much guffawing ensued and I logged in yet another lost opportunity in public education when my intention didn’t even get anywhere near the mark.

P.S. Yes, my students often call me dude for some reason.

Before the last school bell of the day finished ringing, I traveled to a fine purveyor of fine hair products for my fine hair. I knew what I had to do to correct my color. It was the same advice I gave myself at the end of every teaching day. Lighten up!

The next day, I ventured back into my classroom, fairly confident of my new, much lighter shade. I felt ready. The operative word in that sentence is “felt.”

This educational interlude found me proposing the possibility that poor punctuation is perilous, almost as perilous as endless alliteration. Immediately a hand shot up before I could even finish going through my notes for their notes. I was nervous, but this time it was a fellow female of the species.

🙋♀️Surely she — wearer of aqua-tinged hair — would empathize with me about being judged on the basis of hair color. Was it my imagination or did a hush fall over the room? The kind that usually presents itself when I bellow out, “Who threw the spitball that landed in my coffee mug?”

She cleared her throat and asked earnestly, “Yeah, so I was wondering, has anyone ever told you, you look like that Home Improvement mom?”

Oh, progress. Thy name is Patricia Richardson also known as “Home Improvement mom.”

At least I like her hair color.

👽 🏡 Sidebar. I still get asked by oldsters and youngsters alike if I’m either Pam Dawber from Mork ’N’ Mindy or Patricia Richardson from Home Improvement. I’ve been out at various restaurants, bars, and stores when people ask if they can have their picture taken with me. I try to tell them I’m not who they think I am, but it doesn’t matter. They’re convinced. I’m happy to participate in the shared fantasy. Never underestimate the power of syndication in keeping the fans of beloved shows solidly engaged for decades to come.

🤩 Fun Fact. I tackled this same hair-rowing topic in 🎙️Episode4️⃣ of BANGS ’N’ BOTOX: Women Who Wear Aging Well. Listen in for lots ‘o’ laughs, MORE hair puns, and “Oh, no, wait, what?” moments that go to aging well by having F-U-N.

📻 Flip that fabulous mane as you tune in now!

➡️https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bCZ-xTFVxys