The blindingly white strands corrupting the once-uniformly-pigmented landscape of my locks have become the ever-increasing bane of my existence. There. I said it. "You have got to be kidding!" my inner-conscience chides disapprovingly. "Of all the things to pound your chest about, you dare express exasperation regarding your melanin-compromised tresses? There are countless injustices occurring in today's world that warrant real concern, you whiny-dopey-superficial female."

Hmmm...perhaps my inner voice is dead-on. In addition to my complaint being embarrassingly shallow, bemoaning the errant, boing-y, silvery-stark-strands that continue to populate my scalp at a maddening pace is entirely vain. I should feel lucky to have hair! It's so practical - so necessary! In addition to being a handy-dandy accessory, it's also a cold weather insulator and a built-in sunscreen protection system. It enables me to adorn myself...to indulge my feminine creativity by constantly manipulating the way I wear it. Gosh darn it, hair is swell!

Come on...buck up, self. It may not be precisely the color that I desire, but then again, how many women are content with the shade that nature has bestowed upon them? There is a vast industry built around chemical, hair-altering-preparations which facilitate the fair-weather-whimsy of the fairer sex. Oooooo, we love changing, enhancing and transforming our appearances. It is a rite of passage that countless ladies engage in throughout their lives until, according to my Auntie Agnes, they give up the hair coloring ghost in favor of a tightly-permed, snow-white-wash-n-wear-coif. Gulp. Note to self. Jump off nearest cliff if you EVER contemplate sporting poodle-do.

Transforming my look is one thing...sign me up. I take issue with the fact that my hair color maintenance ritual has become increasingly more frequent and laborious due to the wretchedly unscheduled, entirely unwelcome appearance of blinding, follicular beacons that mockingly announce my chronically stressed and apparently advanced age in life. Can't a girl get a break? My despicable mane is always more than eager to betray my coloring confidence just a scant week after I have undergone the camouflaging process. How positively rude and mean-spirited.

Does the appearance of shimmery crystal strands amid my Loreal-enhanced-locks mean that I have officially stepped over the threshold into a world of wise, innate enlightenment? I wish that I could say ‘YES!' but I know better. In a sense, I willingly allowed my cerebral matter to atrophy for entirely too many years. The meandering, often aimless journey of my youth was defined by an open-ended timeline that was rarely ever foreboding or intimidating to me...until now.

Though it would be convenient to blame my happy-go-lucky cluelessness on all of the chemicals that I've massaged into my scalp for the past decade, the truth of the matter is that at my current stage in life, I'm just beginning to figure things out. I am not privvy to insta-wisdom, sage comprehension or ah-ha revelations merely due to my white hair. Drats.

Aside from the dent in my finances thanks to the steady, twice-monthly purchase of Cheapie-Mahogany-Mystique-#345, my hair itself is not a happy camper. The infinite internal and external epithelial sheaths of my formerly lustrous locks presently scream out in chemically-crucified agony and emulate the consistency of a hybridized chewing-gum-Silly-Putty blend (once the entirely unwelcome element of water is added). They protest their unceremonious pigment-laden drowning by resisting conformity...they simply refuse to submit to the process as it is laid out on the back of the box.

Instead, they stubbornly hang onto bits and pieces of yesteryear...a spotty swath of cinnamon from the mid-90s...a green-tinged subdivision here, a deep-dark peat-mossy tract there. No matter how many times I wipe the slate clean with a brand-new-formulation and coloring approach, the result is invariably inconsistent, with white roots tinted a surreal merlot sorbet while my remaining real estate rocks the muddy water spectrum.

Yes, I've lopped it all off and started from scratch. That is not an enviable position to be in if you are of the feminine persuasion and your skull is shaped like the derriere of a kangaroo. I have also plunked down serious money in exchange for the highly exalted services of a licensed coloring professional and with each leap of faith that I took, I was reminded time and time again that I must trade my gingery Julianne Moore aspirations in for the more achievable yet nevertheless soberingly-espresso look of Mary Tyler Moore.

One should never EVER allow their hair coloring hopes and dreams to be dashed by a beauty school graduate. I was always convinced that there HAD TO BE a way to fulfill my red headed soul, and I'm still trying to get it right. Though I should really accept this aberration of my DNA with some semblance of grace, I cannot help but question the purpose of pigmentation absence in hair.

What precious resources are our bodies squandering and conserving in lieu of the seemingly simple art of melanin production? Could some sort of brilliant metabolic achievement be transpiring deep within the core of our being -- the type that justifiably dictates that our bodies short-change our follicles? In exchange for our inconvenience, are we automatically rewarded with a top-secret life span extension plan?

One thing I know for sure. I am not yet ready to pull an Anderson Cooper -- I'm just too weak. If Mother Nature would stop messing with my head, then I would solemnly swear to never again wash noxious haircoloring chemicals down the drain. However (for the time being), no matter how "green" my overall lifestyle may be, my all-too-frequent dates with Loreal make me the equivalent of an environmental hypocrite. As I hang my head in shame, the mirror reveals a glimpse of that all-too-familiar halo of silver roots...which reminds me that it's time once again to lather in the chemicals, stat!