But this head's natural hair is a dingy brownish-gray—essentially colorless.
At the moment, the color covering my dingy brownish-gray mane is whatever brown Caitlyn’s brilliance felt like mixing up last time she colored my coif.
But when he met me, my hair was red.
Blog's Simple Scribbler in college, shortly after meeting now-stuck spouse.
All it took to get him to marry me was a simple bait-and-switch . . .
He sees this girl in church. A redhead. He thinks she’s funny. They find more occasions to meet. He likes her. He loves that her hair is red. (He is pretty foolish if he thinks it’s natural, but she decides that letting him think what he wants is the polite thing to do.)
Their relationship gets sort of serious in an almost-exclusive kind of way.
He agrees to marry her.
He tells her that the girl that picks him up from the airport before their marriage had better have red hair. She tries to make sure it is red, but a well-intentioned stylist’s efforts make it a harsh purple-y black.
A girl with harsh purple-y black hair picks up the groom-to-be from the airport. She says sorry. She says she’ll try to have it fixed to red when it grows and fades a bit.
They get married.
It grows out and fades a bit.
She dyes it brown.
It’s been brown ever since.
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