Carol’s Column

Going the full Monty in hair dyes

For more years than I can imagine, I have had a recurring nightmare. It has two components. The first is that I have to rewrite matric maths. The second is that I am stuck in the desert without a bottle of hair dye.

And now part of my nightmare is to come true.

Recent research undertaken in California in the US links the use of permanent hair dye with bladder cancer.

The results are to be published in this month's issue of the International Journal of Cancer.

According to researcher Manuela Gago-Dominguez, the arylamines family of chemicals is present in permanent hair dye and these can be carcinogenic when absorbed through the skin.

"Good heavens, I'll have to stop dying my hair," I said to my husband in horror as I read the newspaper report.

"Do you dye your hair?" he said with interest. "I hadn't realised."

"What do you mean, do I dye my hair? When you married me did I have orange hair?"

"No, but I thought it had faded in the sun," he observed.

"Haven't you noticed that sometimes I have black hair, sometimes red hair, sometimes I'm blonde, sometimes brunette?"

"Well, not really," he murmured. "You always look the same – a face with hair."

Marriage, huh!

Of course, if one took seriously all the things that are potentially cancer-inducing, it would be extremely difficult to live: I exclude smoking from the list because the evidence that smoking and cancer are related is well documented and irrefutable.

Over the years, everything from plastic umbrellas to popcorn has, at one time or another, been called cancer-producing.

That said, I was a tad concerned at the thought that every time I washed my hair with a permanent dye, my bladder would cringe in fear.

So, I investigated the alternatives. Shaving my head – not acceptable because my ears stick out at right angles and these days I have more crinkles than in previous decades which means I would have a pleated scalp. Not visually pleasing. Then there are wigs.

I had no idea that so many people out there wore wigs. Not only for health and religious reasons, but mainly as a fashion statement, according to Helga who runs the local wig boutique.

"Why be bothered with unmanageable hair when, with a flick of the wrist you can pop on a wig and look absolutely stunning?" said Helga convincingly.

Why indeed?

I tried on at least 20 wigs and each was better than the previous one. "I'll take them all," I exclaimed with enthusiasm until I looked at the prices and realised that one wig could get me a return ticket to London – assuming I flew in the low season.

However, I fancied a natty plum red job with magenta highlights that made me look not unlike Madonna, I thought.

I took it home on appro. "So, what do you think?" I said to my spouse. "Don't you think I look like Madonna?"

"On a bad day," he replied. "Why don't you just let your hair go grey?" he added.

Grey? ... Grey?

This was a psychological barrier to be overcome. My grandmother was grey, my mother was grey, Father Christmas was grey. Rip van Winkle was grey.

But there's a time in life for everything so yesterday, I took the plunge and this morning, like Percy Montgomery, I am grey. An apprentice Silver Streak.

On the way to work, I popped into my corner café.

"Ah," said Mario, "I did not recognise you. You look very different. Just like that famous film star ..."

"Elizabeth Taylor?"

"No, Woody Allen."

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