I got my first “grown-up” haircut on Wednesday.
This is the shorter hairstyle women get when they can no longer pretend to be in their 20’s. Seriously, no one want to be that clueless middle-aged woman rocking the low-rise jeans from the juniors department and the same hairstyle she had twenty years ago. No matter how self-confident this woman seems to be – and she may truly love her body to the point where she is comfortable with her tummy dangling over the waistband of jeans manufactured by someone like “Baby Phat Hot Lips” — we assume she is delusional.
We fear becoming her. We tell our friends, “Look, if I get to that point and I don’t realize I’m there, you need to tell me.”
But I’m not waiting for someone to tell me. Plus, I thought, “If I can’t be young, screw it, I’ll be trendy.” So, I whacked my hair off. Actually, Ann at The Looking Glass whacked it off and donated the remnants to Locks of Love, which pleased me immensely.
And Ann absolutely hooked my head up. Shucks, I left the shop feeling downright middle-age cute and bouncy. (I don’t normally do cute or bouncy, so this was huge.)
And it lasted all of five minutes.
When I left the salon, I picked-up Diva from school. She, being a brutally honest child, proceeded to announce in her loudest outdoor voice… in front of God and everybody, (including the entire faculty and Missus Walker, the President of the local Young Republican club) “Mommy, you look like Grandma!”
So, I went home and examined my haircut again. From all angles and upside down – because, well, you just never know when you’ll need to look good upside down.
Anyway, the more I looked, the less I liked. Oh, the flaw-finding mission wasn’t limited to my head. It never is. It tends to spread to other areas, aspects, portions and pieces of my body. I mean… clearly the haircut doesn’t look good because my ears are too big, my ears are too big, which makes my head look too small, so my wrinkles are more noticeable and my butt looks big… and so on and so forth right down to the crooked toe, which I broke in 2005 and ignored because my husband assured me it was fine. He advised me to put a Band-aid on it and stop being a drama mama.
So, I guess, a crooked toe is what you get for taking medical advice from an industrial machinist.
And again, the more I look, the less I like. Alas, I can’t afford massive micro derma laser augmentational tummy liposuckulation face lift therapy, so I just stopped looking. It’s cheaper this way. Plus, these self-assessments always end up with me deciding I need to jog… and I’d rather avoid this if at all possible. I don’t have a sports bra anyway.
Yes, that’s a valid excuse.
I did consider fighting the “grandma resemblance” by returning to Ann and asking for a Mohawk or perhaps she could dye large chucks of my hair an un-grandmotherly electric purple… this would really make me fit in at the PTA meetings.
I tossed those notions rather quickly. I hate purple. I think mohawks require moussing, and I dig the do as is. Therefore, I refuse to be shattered by the opinion of a 5 year-old who wears green striped tights with pink sparkle shorts and blue Cinderella snow boots. What does she know?
Besides after I washed my hair and failed to do all of the things Ann suggested I might want to do… (as it turns out, I don’t own a blow dryer, curling iron, mousse, gel or anything else that requires me to make an effort) it stuck out all over my head in a rather disorganized manner, which I think suits me.
Getting this haircut was a milestone for me. A confession or a comfortable surrender to the inevitable. However, not tormenting myself over an unflattering offhanded comment… well, that is real progress.
As for the rest of the aging process, eh – as long as I can touch my toes without farting and all of the major organs are in proper working order – I’m good.
No jogging necessary.