OMG. I stared in the mirror as my hair stylist Nancy massaged a dollop of thick “product” sarcastically named Rough Paste into my hair. A warm cloud of product-perfume swirled up my nose. She tweeked and pinched short hairs every which way. They stayed put, as if afraid to talk back.

If I ringed my eyes with black liner, applied tons of black mascara, and poured myself into skin-tight, black leather pants and bustier, in a dim room I might pass for a hard-partying rocker-babe who had aged prematurely, or refused to age, take your pick.

What had I done? I looked down at the floor. My hair is “good:" thick, dark, shot with silver, straight with “body.” Most of it lay scattered around the chair like a mowed lawn. It would take years to grow back out.

It’s not as if I was in love with the last style, a shoulder length bob, parted on the left, with long bangs that I constantly brushed out of my eyes— so annoying. But it was a soft look: attractive, yet unassuming. A good fit for my work (shrink) and my age (middle).

“What do you think?” Nancy smiled broadly, obviously pleased with her creation.

Well…. It was energetic. Even electric. The hair stood straight up. If it got tired and laid down, it wouldn't reach my eyes. “Cut it so the damn bangs stay out of my eyes,” I had told her. Mission accomplished.

“You look awesome!” gushed the stylist at the next station over. “At least ten years younger!”

“You think?” I replied with heavy irony. Which whooshed over their well cut coiffs. They grinned and nodded enthusiastically, YES!! YES!! Well, they would.

Out in the real world, did I get the shocked looks and quick change of subject I expected? No! The cut drew rave reviews.

Even from Hubby: “Wow!” Office staff: “LOVE it!” Patients: “Cool hair!” My dance teacher: “Adorable!” Neighbors. The cashier at Hannaford’s. Strangers shopping at Hannaford’s. OK, maybe it looked good.

Three weeks or so later…. A small car packed with big college boys whipped by as I strolled to my car after a dance class. A comedian inside wolf-whistled, and called out something, the words blown away by the wind.

That whistle was for me?! My face flushed hot. I flashed back to the discomfort this kind of attention used to give me when I actually deserved it. I laughed. That boy was my son’s age. He obviously hadn’t noticed the gray hair. I giggled all the way home.

The next day, in broad daylight, the young man who frequently pumped my gas asked politely, “Can I say something?”

He had never spoken to me beyond, “That’ll be $35,” and “Have a nice day.”

“Sure.”

“I really like your hair,” he whispered shyly. Twice in two days! The hair was hot!

It’s been three years living with this cut. Strangers, both sexes but usually men, all ages, anywhere and everywhere, continue to shyly volunteer they love my hair. I catch them looking and— they can’t seem to help themselves— the words tumble out.

I’m always surprised— “Thanks!” And delighted.

PHOTO CREDIT: derklbot