I am letting my hair grow out in its natural, but presently unknown, color. That would be some mixture of white and grey and feeble light brown. I don’t have to remember that I am doing this. People tell me about it in my family; non-family members avert their eyes. It doesn’t matter to me; heck, I’m short enough most people look right over me. I am a front row group picture person. Always have been.

Actually, lately when someone is talking with me and, of necessity, looking down, I wonder if the straight line of dye vs. roots makes them think of a drafting table, sea-floor spreading or, perhaps, the Prime Meridian or Dan Brown’s Rose Line.

It is not that I don’t want to color my hair; it is just that I can’t seem to really feel like me. One time I walked out with a color that my husband said was me and I felt was me, but now we can’t recreate it – and there is the matter of the “color?” of my roots.

It’s summer; I sweat a lot and wash my hair a lot; I wear baseball caps a lot anyway. I’m going to find out just what I dealing with coming out of my head now and then consider my options. Is there such thing a growing-out grey highlighted color?

I could spray paint my roots. Maybe a nice purple. Then people would know it was me: There goes Crazy AmeliaJake . . . making a statement again. I would probably feel like me.

Lilio is not the only one needing to talk to Rose. She’ll be here tomorrow, thank heavens.