Something to Dye For
I am not a clothes horse nor am I vain person, but when I worked at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania I was given a dress code. I was to wear dress slacks, button down shirt, and a neck tie. Over the years I bought dark blue pants to wear in the winter and tan slacks for the summer. The dark blue slacks were less likely to show dirt from the slush and splash of ashes and grit. I liked lighter colors when spring rolled around after wearing winter colors. I already owned several ties. Sometimes by a few more, especially ties with a holiday theme. Ties I purchased were usually from thrift shops or yard sales. As fellow workers saw my various ties some would give me more. One switchboard lady had a neck tie made for me from one of her blouses, but that’s a story I’ve shared before.
Because my hair was sandy colored, my whiskers have always been red. When I was stationed in Iceland as a corpsman in the United States Navy I was able to grow a full beard and mingle with the Icelandic people unrecognized as an outsider. I kept the beard when I was discharged from the Navy and started college to pursue a career in nursing. I probably wouldn’t have shaved then, but for the constant haranguing from my mom Sybil Miner Beck. She fussed every time she saw me. I was living at home at the time. She said that it made her feel old. When I shaved it off, it took her two weeks to notice that it was gone. She didn’t believe me until my dad Edson Carl Beck corroborated my story.
So where does the dying part of the tale begin? The first happened when I was in nursing school and my hair became grossly soiled with blood from an accident truck driver patient. My uniform and hair were thick with blood and clots. I took some hydrogen peroxide to soak my uniform. The clots were sticking to my hair. Not thinking, I used peroxide with shampoo. The clots came out, but it also brought out red highlights in my hair. I’ve also told this detailed tale in past stories.
I dyed the second time when I worked at Frick. I had a red goatee beard. As I aged, gray crept into my hair and began to display itself in my beard, but only at the corners of my mouth. When I began to look like a cartoon fox with wide jowls of white against the red, I had two choices, to shave it off completely or to hide my encroaching age. I dyed it for about a year until the gray won the war.