As I sat in the colorist’s chair in a high-end salon, I could not help but admire how young I looked. My gray roots had just been obliterated with a $300 Chernobyl of Deep Chocolate Mocha and Buttery Caramel lowlights.

But I knew my hair high would be, as usual, a short-lived buzz. Within days, my mane would oxidize into Roadkill Orange, alluring as a badger pelt. And a telltale gray stripe would appear on my part, demarcating fact from fiction.

That skunky striation was always a surprising betrayal. Just when I’d tricked myself into believing that maybe I really was a 60-something sprouting a Starbucks palette of richly hued locks, the emergence of Witchy White, Grim Reaper Gray and Silver Scythe sadistically reminded me that the house always wins.

My pilgrimage to the salon was a well-worn ritual I practiced like a double-process parishioner for over 25 years. The welcoming, intoxicating mix of ammonia and gossip, coupled with required reading of trashy tabloid hymnals, made it, if not a religious experience, certainly close.