The Column: A dilemma that will give you gray hair
Gray hair? Christie Brinkley?
If you haven’t heard, the Hamptons supermodel revealed on Instagram that she might let nature take its course and replace her gorgeous golden locks with something more authentic and — um — environmental.
“Grey sky! Gray hair!” Brinkley wrote just after her 69th birthday using both spellings of “gray” allowed by Merriam-Webster, perhaps a foreshadowing of uncertainty.
A photo shows the beautiful Ms. B. — 69 never looked so good — sitting on the beach in jeans and boots, surf foaming, clouds moving in. Text says she’s made no final decision on matters of color. Her son tells her gray would be “cool,” Brinkley says, but: “The verdict is still out!”
Coverage soon caught up.
“Christie Brinkley on her gray hair: 'To keep or not to keep?',” declared a Newsday headline.
“Christie Brinkley embraces her gray hair,” cheered NewBeauty magazine.
“Brinkley weighs letting her hair go gray,” asserted the East End publication Dan’s Papers.
I liked “weighs.”
It summons significance — gravitas, consequence, heft.
“Biden weighs reelection bid.”
“U.S. weighs more aid for Ukraine.”
“Fed weighs higher rates.”
“Brinkley weighs gray hair.”
I did some unexpected introspection of my own at the local unisex barber shop several years ago.
“We’ve gone about as far as we can go,” said Judy, my go-to haircutter, like a specialist stumped by a hopeless case.
“Huh?”
There was an ominous sense of finality in Judy’s voice that could mean only one thing. What little I had to lose soon would be on the cutting room floor.
“All for the best,” Judy said. “Believe me.”
How did I get here?
A “Brief History of My Hair” would confirm that it was fair and wispy in the beginning; that scalp began to show through during the teenage crew-cut period; that the hirsute ’60s and ’70s prompted early stabs at deception, and that, by the ’80s, the suspect was committing RICO-level fraud on a daily basis.
We’re talking deluxe comb-over — 15 fretful minutes in front of the bathroom mirror, longer strands swept into position, a nimbus cloud of All-Weather Super-Hold Aqua Net descending to secure the assembly firmly in place.
Ah, vanity.
By the time Judy rendered her verdict I knew the end was near. You cannot every morning part your hair just above your left ear without thinking something has gone terribly wrong.
“Bald is beautiful,” Judy hummed as she revved an electric shaver that looked like it could trim hedges.
Quickly, it was over.
To my surprise, the feeling of deliverance was immediate.
I ran my hand over my head, smooth as a hubcap on my old ’55 Ford, and checked a mirror. Bald may not be beautiful, exactly, but bald was better. No more prepping and spraying. No more worries about the ruinous effects of a stiff wind. Savings in Aqua Net, alone, might put a grandkid through college.
A new man was about to emerge defined by more than where he parted his hair.
Not too long ago, I ran into a friend of the family who I would have expected to remember me but who obviously didn’t.
“It’s me,” I said. “You know … me.”
“Hmm,” said the fellow, a diffident sort, glancing at my lately gleaming brow. “Oh, yes,” he sniffed. “You’re the one with that comb-over.”
The other day our daughter dropped by. We were going through old photos.
There was one of Wink, my wife, and me in the mid-70s. With curly ringlets, Wink looked totally gorgeous. Hair to my collar, I thought I looked pretty good, too, and was about to say so when our daughter exclaimed: “Wow. Some comb-over.”
Accordingly, I am eternally grateful to Judy for her candor and cutting skills.
She’s long gone from the unisex shop, and Wink now does the honors every couple of weeks.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling the fuzz. “Should have started this when I was 30.”
As for Christie Brinkley, we will have to see.
Shortly after her Instagram post, Brinkley released photos suggesting the au naturel moment had passed and she’d gone back to blond, according to Allure magazine. “The silver didn’t seem to stick around too long,” said Allure.
More reporting is needed. Will she or won’t she?
Brinkley insists the verdict is out. No reason to rush. Next year, she’ll only be 70.
Gray hair? Christie Brinkley?
If you haven’t heard, the Hamptons supermodel revealed on Instagram that she might let nature take its course and replace her gorgeous golden locks with something more authentic and — um — environmental.
“Grey sky! Gray hair!” Brinkley wrote just after her 69th birthday using both spellings of “gray” allowed by Merriam-Webster, perhaps a foreshadowing of uncertainty.
A photo shows the beautiful Ms. B. — 69 never looked so good — sitting on the beach in jeans and boots, surf foaming, clouds moving in. Text says she’s made no final decision on matters of color. Her son tells her gray would be “cool,” Brinkley says, but: “The verdict is still out!”
Coverage soon caught up.
“Christie Brinkley on her gray hair: 'To keep or not to keep?',” declared a Newsday headline.
“Christie Brinkley embraces her gray hair,” cheered NewBeauty magazine.
“Brinkley weighs letting her hair go gray,” asserted the East End publication Dan’s Papers.
I liked “weighs.”
It summons significance — gravitas, consequence, heft.
“Biden weighs reelection bid.”
“U.S. weighs more aid for Ukraine.”
“Fed weighs higher rates.”
“Brinkley weighs gray hair.”
I did some unexpected introspection of my own at the local unisex barber shop several years ago.
“We’ve gone about as far as we can go,” said Judy, my go-to haircutter, like a specialist stumped by a hopeless case.
“Huh?”
There was an ominous sense of finality in Judy’s voice that could mean only one thing. What little I had to lose soon would be on the cutting room floor.
“All for the best,” Judy said. “Believe me.”
How did I get here?
A “Brief History of My Hair” would confirm that it was fair and wispy in the beginning; that scalp began to show through during the teenage crew-cut period; that the hirsute ’60s and ’70s prompted early stabs at deception, and that, by the ’80s, the suspect was committing RICO-level fraud on a daily basis.
We’re talking deluxe comb-over — 15 fretful minutes in front of the bathroom mirror, longer strands swept into position, a nimbus cloud of All-Weather Super-Hold Aqua Net descending to secure the assembly firmly in place.
Ah, vanity.
By the time Judy rendered her verdict I knew the end was near. You cannot every morning part your hair just above your left ear without thinking something has gone terribly wrong.
“Bald is beautiful,” Judy hummed as she revved an electric shaver that looked like it could trim hedges.
Quickly, it was over.
To my surprise, the feeling of deliverance was immediate.
I ran my hand over my head, smooth as a hubcap on my old ’55 Ford, and checked a mirror. Bald may not be beautiful, exactly, but bald was better. No more prepping and spraying. No more worries about the ruinous effects of a stiff wind. Savings in Aqua Net, alone, might put a grandkid through college.
A new man was about to emerge defined by more than where he parted his hair.
Not too long ago, I ran into a friend of the family who I would have expected to remember me but who obviously didn’t.
“It’s me,” I said. “You know … me.”
“Hmm,” said the fellow, a diffident sort, glancing at my lately gleaming brow. “Oh, yes,” he sniffed. “You’re the one with that comb-over.”
The other day our daughter dropped by. We were going through old photos.
There was one of Wink, my wife, and me in the mid-70s. With curly ringlets, Wink looked totally gorgeous. Hair to my collar, I thought I looked pretty good, too, and was about to say so when our daughter exclaimed: “Wow. Some comb-over.”
Accordingly, I am eternally grateful to Judy for her candor and cutting skills.
She’s long gone from the unisex shop, and Wink now does the honors every couple of weeks.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling the fuzz. “Should have started this when I was 30.”
As for Christie Brinkley, we will have to see.
Shortly after her Instagram post, Brinkley released photos suggesting the au naturel moment had passed and she’d gone back to blond, according to Allure magazine. “The silver didn’t seem to stick around too long,” said Allure.
More reporting is needed. Will she or won’t she?
Brinkley insists the verdict is out. No reason to rush. Next year, she’ll only be 70.
Fred Bruning is a former Newsday reporter.
