Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
I was sitting with an old friend in a comfy booth in the back of a very good Mexican restaurant on Ventura Boulevard. We were lingering after a hefty serving of fajitas with all the fixings.
“How is Lanny?” (Not her real name) I asked.
“Good, I think. She seems happy being retired. She got old … went gray, the whole shebang,” he answered.
I looked at him. He had, at that point, been sporting a head of gray hair for over two decades. The irony of this didn’t occur to him, nor did it cross his mind that the woman he was talking to (yours truly) had silvery white hair at that time. Our pal Lanny had gone gray, gotten old, and this was a simple fact, as far as he was concerned.
“Oh,” I said.
I thought better of pointing out the obvious contradictions. He is a Hollywood guy, and that is a common perception.
Man X gray = major movie star in a leading role, often with a wife in her 20’s and kids young enough to be his grandchildren.
Woman X gray = got old.
My natural color is reddish-brown, which I enhanced with red pigment in my younger days. Being of “Irish” (also Scottish, Swedish, and American Indian) descent, my hair began to turn white when I was about 27 years old. My sisters also experienced this. I had to touch up my roots on a constant basis to hide the pesky white invaders. My sister Laura and I both migrated to Los Angeles. In the early days, we took turns applying color to one another’s roots when money was tight. Our “salon nights” were fun, filled with good wine, card games, and our beloved “Spill and Spell,” but they were short-lived.
FADE IN.
As my film and television career blossomed, I became a regular at a high-end salon, and my hair color got more sophisticated, with subtleties like highlights as well as low ones. Laura’s fortunes shifted, and she found herself courting a more polished look as well. I played a lot of vamps back then, as well as call girls, and other assorted naughty types. My hair color and my deep voice lent themselves to “siren” roles.
“Broderick!” John exclaimed loudly into the phone. “I’m stuck here in the hospital, and I keep seeing you in movies. Why are they giving you the sexy part? You’re not, you know. Nice legs, I guess, but no ass, and your boobs aren’t more than a B. I mean, you’re no Kim Novak!”
John Randolph was nothing if not straightforward in his communications. He introduced himself to any and all as “John Randolph, the actor.” He was a dear man; I loved him, and in that instance, one had to admit that he had a point.
I had a manager who suggested several times that I engage in some strategic surgical enhancements. I never did. I had seen a lot of boob jobs at the gym. Some of the young women looked pretty good, but many more looked mutilated. They had weird rock-like protrusions jutting out of chests on frames too small to support them naturally. This was thirty-some years ago. The procedures have improved, and no judgment to anyone who does it, but it’s just not my style. I was getting the parts without all of that, so I pressed on with my B cup and size 27 jeans.
It wasn’t until the show Hearts Afire that I began tapping into my comedic side. I sported heavily padded bras and the shortest of skirts, my hair blazing with red, auburn, and a hint of gold. I played Dee Dee Starr, a gal who was several cans short of a six-pack, reputed to be “the dumbest girl in Washington, D.C.” I loved doing a half-hour show. It just felt right.
I switched to blonde for a role on the next series, and it was weird at first. It took some getting used to, but it turned out to be a whole lot easier to maintain. The white that was bleeding in was barely noticeable. The red hair of my youth was gone, and I missed it for a time, but not enough to hit the salon every ten days. A newly blonde Beth was born. A platinum blonde.
I continued to play ditzy sexpots for a while, which kept me in my beloved comedy. I also started getting cast in mom roles and some professional parts: doctors, lawyers, and the like, which were off-limits when my hair was red. The lighter locks gave me more flexibility. Win-win. I never looked back.
It was not until the pandemic that I really gave any thought to my hair color. It was a fact of my life, and nothing more or less, and then I suddenly had to think about it, really think about it. There were elaborate precautions of masking and testing in order to visit a salon. The effort to maintain my dyeing routine seemed silly at a time when so many were battling with the virus, in some cases losing the fight. I decided to let it be for a bit. No one was working. We were all jammed up in our respective homes, trying to “Zoom” away some of the accompanying loneliness.
I kind of liked my natural color and decided to run with it. The modeling agencies that I signed with were 100% in favor of the silvery white. It was a great relief not to have to color my hair every three weeks, and it helped me relax about getting older. My acting reps did not quibble with me about it; the natural look was “on trend.” Several potential employers took exception, though; some offers for work came with the proviso that I return to the color that had been on my calling card for decades. I switched to a golden hue once for a movie, and it was hell trying to grow it back out. I swore I would never acquiesce to that again.
Never say never.
I have given it some serious thought and weighed the pros and cons, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s time to hit the bottle, or the bottled blonde, as it were. It is not because I feel older this way or because the white makes me feel less attractive. I still think I’m all that and a bag of chips. I have worked steadily, both in modeling and acting, with the new look, but something feels off. The blonde is more in line with the kinds of roles I have traditionally played and that I am still sought out for. There is that, but the truth is, at the end of the day, I just miss it. I miss the blonde reflection that was so familiar for so long.
I love being the age that I am. I have never tried to hide it, and I never will; that would be pointless in our digital times. I am proud to be 66 years old and fully aware of the privilege it represents. I don’t have a dog in the hunt when it comes to trying to look younger. I just want to look more like, well … me.
I’m not sure if it’s true that “blondes have more fun.” I had some rip-roaring times as a redhead and some fine adventures with the white. I have certainly had my fair share of the good times, so color me grateful. I’m fixing to have some more …
On we go …
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