HAPPY BIRTHDAY
ELIZABETH!!
ELIZABETH!!
9 months ago
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
July 12, 2009
June 11, 2009
Hair Today....Gone Tomorrow
I have been studying about the economy lately. I have come to conclusion that it's downturn is directly linked to the lack of hair products we use today. Yes, that's right, I believe that back in the late '80's early 90's there was enough wealth and prosperity to go around and even extra to send over to the balding people of foreign countries. And how did we wear our hair then? Just like the Cantwell siblings did. Full of chemically processed curls and hairspray.
For real, today's hair styles are flat. No one ever uses a "curling" iron anymore. No, we all use "flat" irons. I believe that the Dow Jones index reacts to how much hair-spray and perm's we as a nation consume. GM and Chrysler will come out of this thing just fine, but who is going to help the Suave's and the White Rain's of this great country? It's up to us folks. It's entirely up to us. If we don't get behind the companies that kept our coif's fluffed, fried and fixated they too will start migrating overseas and then where will we be? Limp and lifeless, that's where. I have lived that way before friends and it is not a pretty sight.
Just take a look at these pictures from back in the day when we proudly raised our bangs for Uncle Sam.
Now do you believe me? I thought so. So people, for the love of God and America, go out TODAY and get yourself a perm, some heavy duty hair spray and mousse it up for the old red white and blue.
For real, today's hair styles are flat. No one ever uses a "curling" iron anymore. No, we all use "flat" irons. I believe that the Dow Jones index reacts to how much hair-spray and perm's we as a nation consume. GM and Chrysler will come out of this thing just fine, but who is going to help the Suave's and the White Rain's of this great country? It's up to us folks. It's entirely up to us. If we don't get behind the companies that kept our coif's fluffed, fried and fixated they too will start migrating overseas and then where will we be? Limp and lifeless, that's where. I have lived that way before friends and it is not a pretty sight.
Just take a look at these pictures from back in the day when we proudly raised our bangs for Uncle Sam.
Now do you believe me? I thought so. So people, for the love of God and America, go out TODAY and get yourself a perm, some heavy duty hair spray and mousse it up for the old red white and blue.
May 31, 2009
Walking With His Jesus
It is said that we wear many hats in our lives. I think that we also wear many shoes.
Some shoes teach us how to walk. The little white Stride-Rite shoes that hold our ankles steady as we learn to take our first steps are precious.
Others, like our Converse or Nike's, help us run faster and jump higher.
There are those that make us fashionable. Or, haunt us because of the fashion failures they were!
The shoes we wear every day are the ones that help us earn our livings. They might be high heels or they might be work boots. Either way, they are part of the job.
Today, as I think back five years ago, I am remembering the last day my dad was with us. I am thinking about how he wore all of these shoes in his lifetime.
He learned to walk in a little, backwoods town in West Virgina. He moved to another little town in Kentucky where he wore his tennis shoes as he played basketball. Actually he was the manager, he wasn't near tall enough to play for the John's Creek Bearcats!
I can remember the dress boots of the 70's that he wore. You know, the kind that zipped up the side and had a square toe.
I also can remember his work boots. They were always right beside the door going out to the garage. He wore those boots for 30 plus years to Chrysler. Then, when he came home in the evenings, he would wear them in his own garage while he worked on cars. He always called them his brogans....go ahead, look it up, see what a brogan is!!
He wore a lot of shoes in his lifetime. They took him to places that many would think as simple or even boring. But the journey that he took in his shoes is what made him the man he was.
He wasn't perfect. He had a temper that would ignite in a moments notice. But he was genuine. He was who he was and he didn't try to be anything different. That is what I remember and admire about him. How he wanted to be the best he could be, but he wasn't going to try to be something he wasn't just to impress others.
He didn't care that the outside of our garage door was multi colored because of the over spray that covered it from the cars he painted. He knew that was just a result of his hard work that provided for his family.
He was just as happy with a fried bologna sandwich as he was with a juicy steak. He enjoyed nice things, but didn't put much stock in them. And the thing is, that even if he was around someone who had more material things or maybe was a little more refined then he was, he didn't care. If it were lunch time, he would offer to make them a fried bologna sandwich right along with his and not even bat an eye.
He walked through his life in his different shoes leaving his footprints where ever he tread. The most permanent one is the print he left on my heart. I miss him. That is why I cherish these shoes of his. They remind me of the kind of man he was. Simple, classic and genuine.
I would never wish that he was still here. No, he fought his battle and now is resting in his reward. But I do wish I had just a few minutes to talk with him.
I want him to know how smart and cute Amber is. I want to see the pride in his face as he looks on Chris, Elizabeth and Stephanie. I want to see him hold his great-grandson and smile at him the way he smiled at my babies. I need for him to snatch Brad up by the collar and tell him how much he loves him and how he knows he can beat his problems.
Yes, I miss him and want him to be here with us. But I will wait. I will wait until I can walk with him in the new shoes he wears now. The ones that he wears as he walks with Jesus. I will tell him all about it then.
Some shoes teach us how to walk. The little white Stride-Rite shoes that hold our ankles steady as we learn to take our first steps are precious.
Others, like our Converse or Nike's, help us run faster and jump higher.
There are those that make us fashionable. Or, haunt us because of the fashion failures they were!
The shoes we wear every day are the ones that help us earn our livings. They might be high heels or they might be work boots. Either way, they are part of the job.
Today, as I think back five years ago, I am remembering the last day my dad was with us. I am thinking about how he wore all of these shoes in his lifetime.
He learned to walk in a little, backwoods town in West Virgina. He moved to another little town in Kentucky where he wore his tennis shoes as he played basketball. Actually he was the manager, he wasn't near tall enough to play for the John's Creek Bearcats!
I can remember the dress boots of the 70's that he wore. You know, the kind that zipped up the side and had a square toe.
I also can remember his work boots. They were always right beside the door going out to the garage. He wore those boots for 30 plus years to Chrysler. Then, when he came home in the evenings, he would wear them in his own garage while he worked on cars. He always called them his brogans....go ahead, look it up, see what a brogan is!!
He wore a lot of shoes in his lifetime. They took him to places that many would think as simple or even boring. But the journey that he took in his shoes is what made him the man he was.
He wasn't perfect. He had a temper that would ignite in a moments notice. But he was genuine. He was who he was and he didn't try to be anything different. That is what I remember and admire about him. How he wanted to be the best he could be, but he wasn't going to try to be something he wasn't just to impress others.
He didn't care that the outside of our garage door was multi colored because of the over spray that covered it from the cars he painted. He knew that was just a result of his hard work that provided for his family.
He was just as happy with a fried bologna sandwich as he was with a juicy steak. He enjoyed nice things, but didn't put much stock in them. And the thing is, that even if he was around someone who had more material things or maybe was a little more refined then he was, he didn't care. If it were lunch time, he would offer to make them a fried bologna sandwich right along with his and not even bat an eye.
He walked through his life in his different shoes leaving his footprints where ever he tread. The most permanent one is the print he left on my heart. I miss him. That is why I cherish these shoes of his. They remind me of the kind of man he was. Simple, classic and genuine.
I would never wish that he was still here. No, he fought his battle and now is resting in his reward. But I do wish I had just a few minutes to talk with him.
I want him to know how smart and cute Amber is. I want to see the pride in his face as he looks on Chris, Elizabeth and Stephanie. I want to see him hold his great-grandson and smile at him the way he smiled at my babies. I need for him to snatch Brad up by the collar and tell him how much he loves him and how he knows he can beat his problems.
Yes, I miss him and want him to be here with us. But I will wait. I will wait until I can walk with him in the new shoes he wears now. The ones that he wears as he walks with Jesus. I will tell him all about it then.
April 08, 2009
Put on Your Easter Bonnet
Easter 1963
Me and my basket!
Easter is just a few days away. There is still time to get out and get that extra special Easter frock. I don't know if we were rich or poor when I was growing up. Didn't know if I missed out on anything that all the other kids had or not. But I do know that every Easter we were guaranteed a new Easter outfit. I even remember one my mom made for me when I was 12 or 13.
I continued that tradition when I had children. Every year Chris would get a new suit, the girls would get a new dress, a bonnet, gloves and white patent leather shoes. And of course new hair doos. The pink sponge rollers had to go in about 3:00 Saturday afternoon in order for the hair to be good and dry by Sunday School time the next morning. Oh how I miss those days. But I am sure Chris would rather die than let me pick out his Easter duds. And the hair.....my girls would tie my hands behind my back and put me down with a strong sedative before they would even let me near their hair with sponge rollers. But I am thrilled to have them all home this weekend to celebrate Easter with me. I will take them with their unmatching, non-frilly outfits. I don't even care if they don't wear bows in their hair. I will just remember them the way the were and love them for the way they are.
Easter 1955
Danny's family minus Danny---He didn't come along for another 4 months
Easter 1983
Chris and Elizabeth
Chris and Elizabeth
Easter 1985
Still only Chris and Elizabeth
Still only Chris and Elizabeth
Easter 1988
Ta Da!! Chris, Elizabeth and Stephanie
Ta Da!! Chris, Elizabeth and Stephanie
Easter 1989
Will they ever forgive me?
Happy Easter to All!!
February 23, 2009
Child of the Mountains
I just read this post over at Annie's Blog and she is talking about the 20/20 show on "Children of the Mountains" in which Diane Sawyer, a Kentucky native, talks about the struggle the children in Appalachia face to have even the basic necessities of life.
I was born in Pikeville Methodist Hospital in Pikeville, Kentucky, so I am familiar with some of the areas Diane Sawyer visits. I still have a lot of family there and in the surrounding area and let me say that not everyone in the Appalachians fit the description, or better yet, the stereotype portrayed in this piece.
What they say is true. I have seen some of the places they were talking about. I have had family members touched by the addiction to the prescription drugs and the alcoholism they reported. I have seen first hand the economic disparity that exists in the hills of Eastern Kentucky. The poverty is real.
I realize that the piece was an attempt to bring light to a spiraling situation that seems to have no end for the young children born and raised in the hills to impoverished families. I in no way mean to demean the purpose of the report. It was accurate and hopefully will bring the much needed attention to an area that is often forgotten.
What I would like to focus on though is the heritage I have been given by my connection to my family there. I didn't grow up there. In fact, I only lived in the area the first five years of my life. But the influence is still very evident in who I am today.
I am sad for my own children who really will never appreciate how their ancestors built a life out of little or nothing. They will never experience visiting Aunt Elfie and Uncle Banner and using the outhouse, drawing water from their well or watching them throw coal on the fire used to heat their entire house.....in the late 1960's early'70's. They will never shop at a general store where the owners lived in the back of the store. They will never know a Will Pinson, an old man who had nothing in life but hard work, but still had a candy bar (albeit old and stale) for a kid from up north visiting her grandparents.
It amuses me that my kids shop "organic" at a big chain store or farmers markets when their great-grandfather had a garden near the size of our entire back yard. The size of his broccoli and the sweetness of his corn was a great source of pride for him. The produce he so tenderly cared for was not a hobby, but a way to feed his large family.
They will never see first hand some of the traditions that have long since passed on. I can remember when we would all be together for a big family dinner, all the men would gather around the table and eat first. Then when they were done, the women would sit down and eat. It wasn't as though the women were banished from the table, it was just the way it was. There wasn't enough room for everyone to sit, so the men got to first.
Coming face to face with a loaded coal truck on a narrow road on the side of hill will cause an atheist to pray out loud. And playing in the creek all day long catching crawdads is something that every kid should experience at least once in their lifetime.
One experience that will stay with me forever is funerals. Although times have changed, I can remember funerals of my great-grandparents where the body of the deceased was brought to their home and was laid out in the living room for three days. Visitors would call at the home and always...always brought food. There was so much food there wasn't room for it. Services were held every night. A service would include singing, without any form of accompaniment, and the leader would say the first line in a chant like tone and the congregation would repeat it in a tune like manner. All the while during the singing, people are going from person to person shaking hands. After the singing, two, three or four preachers would each bring a message. Not an uplifting "he's with Jesus" kind of message but a "get your life right or your a goin' to hell" kind of message. (Visit the web site Blessed Hope Services to get a taste of what I am describing.) On the day of the funeral, the body is moved to the church. Now in Pike County the congregation moves from church to church. My great- grandpa Maynard's funeral was held in Brushy Creek. My Grandma and Grandpa's funeral was at the Apple Orchard Church. But the services were the same, singing, hand shaking and preaching. After all the preaching was done the pall bearers would take the casket and carry it to the grave, if the grave yard was nearby, or it would be put in the hearse and taken to the cemetery where there would be a little more singing and a little more preaching. Then it was time to go back to the house and eat.
Yes, the hills and hollers hold deep devastation for some. But for me, they hold a wealth of memories I will forever cherish. I pray that the cycle will soon be broken for those caught in the trap of despair and hopelessness. What my prayer for those fighting this up hill battle is that they gain a victory over their poverty and lack of education without loosing their identity. I pray that the legacy they will leave for the future "Children of the Mountains" will be one of pride in their heritage, a strength to overcome adversity much like their forefathers, and new faith in the One True God that will be passed on from this point forward.
I was born in Pikeville Methodist Hospital in Pikeville, Kentucky, so I am familiar with some of the areas Diane Sawyer visits. I still have a lot of family there and in the surrounding area and let me say that not everyone in the Appalachians fit the description, or better yet, the stereotype portrayed in this piece.
What they say is true. I have seen some of the places they were talking about. I have had family members touched by the addiction to the prescription drugs and the alcoholism they reported. I have seen first hand the economic disparity that exists in the hills of Eastern Kentucky. The poverty is real.
I realize that the piece was an attempt to bring light to a spiraling situation that seems to have no end for the young children born and raised in the hills to impoverished families. I in no way mean to demean the purpose of the report. It was accurate and hopefully will bring the much needed attention to an area that is often forgotten.
What I would like to focus on though is the heritage I have been given by my connection to my family there. I didn't grow up there. In fact, I only lived in the area the first five years of my life. But the influence is still very evident in who I am today.
I am sad for my own children who really will never appreciate how their ancestors built a life out of little or nothing. They will never experience visiting Aunt Elfie and Uncle Banner and using the outhouse, drawing water from their well or watching them throw coal on the fire used to heat their entire house.....in the late 1960's early'70's. They will never shop at a general store where the owners lived in the back of the store. They will never know a Will Pinson, an old man who had nothing in life but hard work, but still had a candy bar (albeit old and stale) for a kid from up north visiting her grandparents.
It amuses me that my kids shop "organic" at a big chain store or farmers markets when their great-grandfather had a garden near the size of our entire back yard. The size of his broccoli and the sweetness of his corn was a great source of pride for him. The produce he so tenderly cared for was not a hobby, but a way to feed his large family.
They will never see first hand some of the traditions that have long since passed on. I can remember when we would all be together for a big family dinner, all the men would gather around the table and eat first. Then when they were done, the women would sit down and eat. It wasn't as though the women were banished from the table, it was just the way it was. There wasn't enough room for everyone to sit, so the men got to first.
Coming face to face with a loaded coal truck on a narrow road on the side of hill will cause an atheist to pray out loud. And playing in the creek all day long catching crawdads is something that every kid should experience at least once in their lifetime.
One experience that will stay with me forever is funerals. Although times have changed, I can remember funerals of my great-grandparents where the body of the deceased was brought to their home and was laid out in the living room for three days. Visitors would call at the home and always...always brought food. There was so much food there wasn't room for it. Services were held every night. A service would include singing, without any form of accompaniment, and the leader would say the first line in a chant like tone and the congregation would repeat it in a tune like manner. All the while during the singing, people are going from person to person shaking hands. After the singing, two, three or four preachers would each bring a message. Not an uplifting "he's with Jesus" kind of message but a "get your life right or your a goin' to hell" kind of message. (Visit the web site Blessed Hope Services to get a taste of what I am describing.) On the day of the funeral, the body is moved to the church. Now in Pike County the congregation moves from church to church. My great- grandpa Maynard's funeral was held in Brushy Creek. My Grandma and Grandpa's funeral was at the Apple Orchard Church. But the services were the same, singing, hand shaking and preaching. After all the preaching was done the pall bearers would take the casket and carry it to the grave, if the grave yard was nearby, or it would be put in the hearse and taken to the cemetery where there would be a little more singing and a little more preaching. Then it was time to go back to the house and eat.
Yes, the hills and hollers hold deep devastation for some. But for me, they hold a wealth of memories I will forever cherish. I pray that the cycle will soon be broken for those caught in the trap of despair and hopelessness. What my prayer for those fighting this up hill battle is that they gain a victory over their poverty and lack of education without loosing their identity. I pray that the legacy they will leave for the future "Children of the Mountains" will be one of pride in their heritage, a strength to overcome adversity much like their forefathers, and new faith in the One True God that will be passed on from this point forward.
February 20, 2009
High Brow Living...
My mother has been reading my blog and has taken offense to a few of the posts. In particular the bread bag ordeal and her part in the chain of hair disasters that would eventually follow me most of my life.
Lest you think that all of my humbling experiences have come at the hand of my dear, devoted Mom, let me share an embarrassing experience that happened at my own hand....or slip thereof.
Let me explain. I have always been very sensitive, almost embarrassed, by my eyebrows. I thought they were as big as woolly caterpillars. I would barely look anyone in the eye. Honestly, grown men would die for mustaches as thick and full as my eyebrows were.
Being at the very critical age of 12 or 13, I decided it was time to get these mammoths under control. Being too shy and ashamed to ask anyone for help, I thought I could trim them up myself.
Now let me first set the stage. I grew up in the 70's and full wall mirrors were quite the rage. We just happened to have a wall-o- mirror behind our bath tub. (I just realized where my totally warped sense of body image came from.) Back to the taming of the brows. As I sat soaking in the tub, staring with deep disgust at the row of fur running across my forehead I came up with what I thought was a solution to my problem.
I grabbed my Dad's razor and proceeded with my plan. I took a little off the bottom and trimmed the tops. The right side looked gorgeous!! Thin and nicely rounded at the arch. I was feeling more confident already. As I proceeded to trim up the top of the left caterpillar brow, my elbow slipped off my knee and the razor removed exactly half of the inner part of my eyebrow. There I sat in a tepid tub of water with my beautifully shaped right eyebrow and half of a caterpillar on the left.
I was too shocked to cry and too mortified to get help from my mom. I immediately got out of the tub, got dressed and found my mom's eyebrow pencil thinking I could fill the barren spot in. Well let me tell you that didn't work, it was very conspicuous. Caterpillars have a lot of depth to them you know.
The next morning as I was getting dressed for school I had no idea how to deal with this situation. The best I could come up with was to part my very straight hair on the side and swoop it down over my eye making me look very mysterious I thought. "This will work" I thought to myself. Just as long as there is no wind and I don't have to move my head to the right or the left no one will know that a decapitated caterpillar lurks beneath the bang. That is until I got to school and someone asked me why I was wearing my hair like that? Quickly thinking on my feet my reply was "My Mom.....she is MAKING me." They bought it. Or they just didn't care and made mental notes not to fiddle with their own eyebrows.
After what seemed like months, my caterpillar friend filled back in and stayed stuck to my face until my late teens when a friend showed me the finer points of tweezers and plucking.
I wish I could say that now that I am older I don't care what people think about how I look, but that would be untrue. Because now my eyebrows are thinner, but the rest of me isn't and that brings on a whole other set of insecurities.
Lest you think that all of my humbling experiences have come at the hand of my dear, devoted Mom, let me share an embarrassing experience that happened at my own hand....or slip thereof.
Let me explain. I have always been very sensitive, almost embarrassed, by my eyebrows. I thought they were as big as woolly caterpillars. I would barely look anyone in the eye. Honestly, grown men would die for mustaches as thick and full as my eyebrows were.
Being at the very critical age of 12 or 13, I decided it was time to get these mammoths under control. Being too shy and ashamed to ask anyone for help, I thought I could trim them up myself.
Now let me first set the stage. I grew up in the 70's and full wall mirrors were quite the rage. We just happened to have a wall-o- mirror behind our bath tub. (I just realized where my totally warped sense of body image came from.) Back to the taming of the brows. As I sat soaking in the tub, staring with deep disgust at the row of fur running across my forehead I came up with what I thought was a solution to my problem.
I grabbed my Dad's razor and proceeded with my plan. I took a little off the bottom and trimmed the tops. The right side looked gorgeous!! Thin and nicely rounded at the arch. I was feeling more confident already. As I proceeded to trim up the top of the left caterpillar brow, my elbow slipped off my knee and the razor removed exactly half of the inner part of my eyebrow. There I sat in a tepid tub of water with my beautifully shaped right eyebrow and half of a caterpillar on the left.
I was too shocked to cry and too mortified to get help from my mom. I immediately got out of the tub, got dressed and found my mom's eyebrow pencil thinking I could fill the barren spot in. Well let me tell you that didn't work, it was very conspicuous. Caterpillars have a lot of depth to them you know.
The next morning as I was getting dressed for school I had no idea how to deal with this situation. The best I could come up with was to part my very straight hair on the side and swoop it down over my eye making me look very mysterious I thought. "This will work" I thought to myself. Just as long as there is no wind and I don't have to move my head to the right or the left no one will know that a decapitated caterpillar lurks beneath the bang. That is until I got to school and someone asked me why I was wearing my hair like that? Quickly thinking on my feet my reply was "My Mom.....she is MAKING me." They bought it. Or they just didn't care and made mental notes not to fiddle with their own eyebrows.
After what seemed like months, my caterpillar friend filled back in and stayed stuck to my face until my late teens when a friend showed me the finer points of tweezers and plucking.
I wish I could say that now that I am older I don't care what people think about how I look, but that would be untrue. Because now my eyebrows are thinner, but the rest of me isn't and that brings on a whole other set of insecurities.
BEFORE
AFTER
January 31, 2009
Hair - larious....
Oh I feel so good today. I got my hair done last night. I no longer have that dark brown/gray streak running down the length of my part! Now every strand is a beautiful, warm brown with gorgeous highlights sprinkled through that pick up the sun and just glow. Sparkle I tell you. It is exactly how God intended for my hair to look!
I haven't always been so confident with my hair. My earliest memory is when I was probably 6 or 7. I was in the first grade and had gotten a haircut. I remember going to my room and crying because I looked in the mirror was convinced that I looked just like one of the Beatles. I was just sure that whoever it was that cut my hair was obsessed with Ringo Starr and decided I should honor the drummer by sporting his same hair style. Oh, if I had only known then what I know now, it was to be the first in a long line of hair disappointments.
Well I eventually moved into the "shag" era. For those who don't know what a shag is, it is really just a feminine mullet. It is cut short and layered all over the head but there is just a little fringe that hangs down the back of the neck to about the top of the collar. Marvelous...just stunning. I spent my middle school years looking very much like Florence Henderson from the Brady Bunch. Then my junior year in high school I got rid of the modified mullet and let it start to grow. I also thought I needed some color. So documented for life in my senior pictures are my two blond streaks about 1/2 inch thick on each side of my part just on the bangs. Oh it was beautiful!!
Then the perm years. Ah yes, short and curly, long and curly. A good perm would last for months!! My daughter accuses me of ruining her childhood and scarring her for life by having her hair permed. I just think it built character. Yes the perm years were dark years and lasted for quite a while. We really just don't like to talk about them.
Now we are in the color enhanced years. I had made a decision I was not going to color my hair to hide the gray so I started before the gray appeared. Now I could be the most beautiful shade of silver to ever grace this earth, but I will never know because Kris at Riverside Salon has found the perfect color for me and I thank God every time I walk out that door.
I will always struggle with fine, bodiless hair, but it will always be the color of buttered toast. Thank you Jesus.
I haven't always been so confident with my hair. My earliest memory is when I was probably 6 or 7. I was in the first grade and had gotten a haircut. I remember going to my room and crying because I looked in the mirror was convinced that I looked just like one of the Beatles. I was just sure that whoever it was that cut my hair was obsessed with Ringo Starr and decided I should honor the drummer by sporting his same hair style. Oh, if I had only known then what I know now, it was to be the first in a long line of hair disappointments.
Well I eventually moved into the "shag" era. For those who don't know what a shag is, it is really just a feminine mullet. It is cut short and layered all over the head but there is just a little fringe that hangs down the back of the neck to about the top of the collar. Marvelous...just stunning. I spent my middle school years looking very much like Florence Henderson from the Brady Bunch. Then my junior year in high school I got rid of the modified mullet and let it start to grow. I also thought I needed some color. So documented for life in my senior pictures are my two blond streaks about 1/2 inch thick on each side of my part just on the bangs. Oh it was beautiful!!
Then the perm years. Ah yes, short and curly, long and curly. A good perm would last for months!! My daughter accuses me of ruining her childhood and scarring her for life by having her hair permed. I just think it built character. Yes the perm years were dark years and lasted for quite a while. We really just don't like to talk about them.
Now we are in the color enhanced years. I had made a decision I was not going to color my hair to hide the gray so I started before the gray appeared. Now I could be the most beautiful shade of silver to ever grace this earth, but I will never know because Kris at Riverside Salon has found the perfect color for me and I thank God every time I walk out that door.
I will always struggle with fine, bodiless hair, but it will always be the color of buttered toast. Thank you Jesus.
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