Old lady hair is driving me crazy. It’s dry and unmanageable. Strands come loose when I’m reading in bed, absentmindedly dragging my fingers through the knots. I drop it all on the floor, hoping to remember to gather and toss it in the morning. I make designs on the shower wall with it, pull it off my sweaters and pillows. Shedding like the cat. I’m coming apart.
I’m not gray yet, which seems to be a whole thing. A woman my age recently expressed doubt. She thinks I’m lying and secretly coloring my hair. She doesn’t know me.
I’ve never been a care-for-my-hair type. Haven’t owned a hair dryer or curling iron. Other than a brief teen flirtation with henna, I’ve never colored it. I had one perm, long ago, before my first wedding. I found a great photo from that ill-fated day that I’ve framed. My short permed hair looks like a ridiculous wig, but I love the picture because my dad is in it and we look happy. I was already telling myself that divorce was an option.
I’m not afraid of gray, but ask me when the snow comes in. My mother finally grayed in her 70s and she’s gorgeous. Maybe a change would be nice.
My hair is the color of a mouse. Straight and what they call fine. Not fine like damn. Flat and flyaway fine. Like a cheap doll that can’t afford much up top. In the right conditions (humid, stars aligned) it gets something like body, but it’s fleeting. It was at its best during a rainy week in Mexico when I was 18. Then I came home and it went limp again.
I’ve always worn my hair shoulder length or longer, except for the brief short, permed situation. As a young woman, I would braid it or carefully build what I hoped was an elegant bun. But then I had kids (and am lazy), so hair was an ornament I didn’t have time for or interest in. It has been swept back into ponies and pseudo buns since. A yearly trim, which more often happened every two or three years. No fuss.
Wrestling midlife hair has reminded me of my grandmother and her weekly appointment. We would march — she, imperiously in her Etienne Aigners; me racing to keep up — a few blocks over to her “beauty parlor” where she had it “done.” She’d give me a little money to pop in the shops for candy and whatnot, and later she’d emerge with what looked like the same hair. A short, smart helmet of not-white, not-blue. What is that old lady color?
Until now, I haven’t thought much about my hair. Wash, air dry, brush (if combed wet, it hangs like a flimsy dime store curtain). Yank it back and tie it. Carry on. This new, old lady texture is the problem. The unpredictability. The knotting and the dread tendency. I love the idea of a long gray mane, but not if it’s the texture of straw. Not if it’s a tangle of brittle mess. I understand now the short little helmet.
My daughter gave me a “super moisture” shampoo and a “moisture superfood hair mask.” The shampoo has changed nothing and, so far, laziness has kept me from the mask. I think it has to stay on my head for awhile? What am I supposed to do while waiting? The beauty industry hates me.
All this frustration with my hair feels frivolous. A dear old friend is going through chemo and just shaved her head. She says she’s “having fun with wigs” and I know it’s true, but the reason and the lack of choice must be oppressive. She had the most gorgeous, luxurious head of hair I’ve ever seen. She is still radiant and busy, the hair is but ornament.
I asked the lady who trims my hair if I could have a pixie and she made a face that got away from her. “It will lay flat like nothing on your head, probably not best.” Bald with a little wisp on top, maybe that’s my next look. Better than long, tangled straw.
It’s fine gathered in the back, though. I can’t see it and don’t have to think about it. At least I have the choice.
Extras:
Just finished watching Julia and am conflicted. It’s fun and lovely to look at, the history is interesting (if somewhat fudged), but it’s often clunky and sometimes problematic. I’m glad I watched it, but YMMV. I do so love that Julia made a lot of noise after 50 - gives me hope. In a related note, I’m reading Provence, 1970 and loving it. M.F.K. forever.
I survived a dental procedure and all went well! Who would have guessed? Maybe I don’t have to freak out quite so much next time?
Aretha’s Rocksteady has been getting me through it lately.
Thanksgiving is next week and I have opinions (written under the influence of a certain toxic tyrant).
I changed the newsletter text style. Easier on the aging eyes? I’ll probably change it again, hang on to your hats. Ornament!
Stay warm! (It’s snowing here. Not sure how I feel about that.)
Lisa