So, I got my hair cut yesterday and, while I was at it, had it dyed as well. This is not my first time messing with God's intended palette for my pate. I did this hideous half-bleached-half-brown thing to my head when I was a freshman in college, and I dyed it various at least not intendedly unnatural looking shades of brownish-red a few times in graduate school. But this is the first time I dyed my hair specifically because I was tired of seeing the increasing number of gray hairs in the mirror and feeling the generalized geriatric-je-ne-sais-quoi these provoked. I know that there is a hundredstrong chorus out there who think that I have reached the point in My Recession where I should start shaving my head, but instead I've resolved to hang onto but re-hue what I have left.
According to the stylist, what I did strictly speaking was called "color camouflage," which is some technique that is supposed to blend in and appear completely natural. The color she chose seemed darker than my nongray hair actually is, and I left the salon suspecting I looked a wee too much Professor Goth for my tastes. This was confirmed this morning when I came into the office and the program assistant from twenty feet away said, "Hi, Jeremy. Hey, you got a haircut. And, wait, did you dye it black?"
I have a Very Important Talk to give in November. If I decide to continue down this path, I might retain the services of a more expensive colorist before it, just to avoid the appearance that I've taken a break from my Cure cover band to come speak.