Don’t ask, don’t tell.

Don’t ask, don’t tell.

Speaking of hair color, I remember a visit to my hometown when I went to the local YMCA to watch my mom teach her Senior Aqua-Aerobics class. They were all in the pool as I greeted my mother. She was thrilled to show off her students – her “ladies” – to me, and me to them.

“And this is my dance instructor,” my mom┬ásaid at one point, introducing me to a woman in her eighties. “I don’t know how you did it, but you two both have the exact same shade of red hair!” She turned to me. “What do you use, honey?”

I was beet red. “Mom,” I said quietly, “there are those who might think this is my natural color.” She looked at me doubtfully.

“No . . . really? Huh.” She then looked at her ladies for help, and they all smiled at me and shook their heads kindly.

Lesson learned. After a certain age, only your hairdresser knows for sure – and every woman on earth over 60.

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