FROM THE ARCHIVES:
To dye, or not to dye, was a burning issue for women in 1960, if this column by Caroline Mitchell was a reliable guide.
A WOMAN’S crowning glory is her hair. That’s what they used to say in the old days before the invention of perms, clever cutting, or any aids at all except the curling tongs. Those were the days when only every fifth or sixth head had hair worth looking at, and even then it didn’t retain its so-called “glory” long into adult maturity.
In this day and age of hairdressers’ wizardry, the girl with the skimpy dank locks can fluff them up into any kind of glory she likes: the over-hirsute lady with a thatch like a bearskin can prune it down to manageable proportions, and everybody can change the original colour to one she likes better, and simply slip along into late middle age without ever returning a grey hair.
Wonderful, isn’t it? But along with all the help that can now come your way, there persists a number of ancient shibboleths from the bad old days. The principal one is “but I couldn’t dye my hair – it’s so vulgar.”
Lady, would you rather be “vulgar” and look fine, or “well-bred” and fade out of the picture?
The problem of vulgarity doesn’t enter into hair-colouring these days, because if your hair looks dyed, it has been badly done, and anything badly done is vulgar as well as unbecoming.
Time was when you’d recognise a “dyed head” a mile off. It usually occurred on top of a wizened old face and carried with it a sharp black demarcation line, and very often a few inky dribbles down the back of the neck as well. The strangest effects were achieved by other aging ladies with burning hearts; they heaped fire upon their grey heads in the form of a crude henna (was it henna?), and the scarlet flare receded from the widening parting as the weeks went by.
And, of course, in those unenlightened days, only actresses were said to do these things, and everybody knew what they were up to. I never did know, but it couldn’t have been much, if a glamorous private life was dependent upon exquisite looks. I once knew an old lady who used tan boot-polish as a hair-dye and she was above reproach; she went even further and polished her straw hat with it too.
Let’s face it: you nearly always make yourself look better than Nature did – unless you have made a hopeless mess of things. All this nonsense about Nature being the best artificer has been dispelled in a cloud of skin-toned face-powder and moisture- retaining preparations. What you should aim at is creating the illusion that nature did a perfect job on you – something that rarely happens, and when it does the effect is ephemeral at worst and fluctuating at best.
Having accepted the new approach to illusory beauty in the matter of face, why stop off at the hairline? Hair is subject to the onslaught of time when originally beautiful, and when not, is a mute appeal for early help.
There is nothing more scandalous in colouring your hair than applying colour to your face. Having accepted this one, you need to advance a further step. There is no need for secrecy. Certainly, if your hair was gorgeously fair at 18, you are entitled to maintain your own gold standard at 45 with no questions asked. But if you, a brunette, suddenly have an urge to experiment in the reputedly-exciting blonde regions, go right ahead.
Scorn any old-fashioned titters that are sure to confront you on your first appearance (men are the most out-dated of all on up-to-date occasions like this), and change over to Titian tones the following week if the blonde mood wears off. Still later on, you are entitled to switch back to your natural colour, with no more fuss than if you rescued last year’s coat from the cleaners and started wearing it again.
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