The Mayo News

Blonde moments can be golden


Áine Ryan

BEING BLONDE isn’t always easy. Especially if, like me, you are a lady of a certain age and those pesky silvery strands are multiplying at an alarming rate.
Way back decades ago I recall categorically saying to friends that when older I would – under no circumstances – resort to masking my true hair colour. What’s the point? We women should be willing to grow old gracefully. Why look like a cross between a Barbie doll and Donnatella Versace?
Or, to go right back to basics, what was the point of our suffragette sisters fighting for the franchise or, in later years, burning their bras so that we could become blonde bimbos?
As I’ve got older I’ve discovered that it’s not mutually exclusive to fantasise about being Carrie Bradshaw and do a doctoral thesis about – say – The Role of the Matriarch in John B Keane’s plays.   
For example, on a recent Saturday afternoon I luxuriated in a world of personal pampering at the Petals Beauty Salon in Westport. Before you ask, I deserved it. I’d had a busy, busy week, which culminated in the opening of the Westport Arts Festival the night before. That was followed by dinner a la recession (highly recommendable Early Bird Menu at the Carlton Atlantic Coast Hotel) with a group of friends and a row over the Lisbon referendum fuelled by a cheeky little Merlot. Then it was onwards to the Wyatt for the ritual exhumation of those hillbilly blues boy and gals, The Wild Blue Yonder.
At one point I thought I’d have to call the Emergency Services – right there in the middle of the dance floor.
Sure it was no wonder I needed some cosmetic comfort the following day. Fortunately, my appointment was mid-afternoon as I dragged myself into the scented salon, looking more bedraggled than the wreck of the Hesperus. 
Minutes later every follicle of my dishevelled locks was being examined; warmer winter tones were proffered; a new magical solution by L’Oreal of Paris was suggested.
“You’re the expert,” I said softly, lost in the glossy pages of a Milan catwalk.
Two hours later and a barely recognisable visage beamed back at me in the mirror. Well, I had spent the afternoon in an oasis of indulgence: aromatic coffees, massaging chairs and perfect primping. Et mon Dieu: that’s because I’m worth it.

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