Women of a Certain Age:  The Hair Color Dilemma

Women of a Certain Age: The Hair Color Dilemma

Women of a Certain Age-- What's that all about?

Well, we would just say that if you are asking that question, you might not have reached the point yet--that you can "enjoy" the experience first hand.  But trust us, it's coming, and if not you, without a doubt, you will know someone who will knowingly shake her head upon reading this title.  The word "enjoy" is chosen a bit tongue in cheek, because some of this rite of passage (into Lord knows where) is excruciatingly uncomfortable.  Yes, the physical pinch, chafe, and wrinkle, along with a dose of self-consciousness and self-confidence (!) aptly represent both the physical and emotional aspects  of reaching this seasoned, and dare we say, "mature" point in life. In Women of a Certain Age, we will be laying it all out there for you to experience with us. Janet Greenfield, with her aware sense of self and irony, is leading us through. 


"Don’t It Always Seem To Go That You Don’t Know What You’ve Got Til It’s Gone?"

(Thank you, Joni Mitchell)

Over the years, I have developed an exceptionally close relationship with my hair guy, Dan.  I see him religiously, at least every four weeks.  The sad fact is that I see him more than some of my closest friends, although I am loathe to admit it.  One of the very unfortunate genetic legacies passed on to me from my mother is the cursed premature grey hair trait, although at 60 it’d not be fair to say that its premature anymore (ok, but at 35 I think I am justified to say that it was).

How I wish I could say I was one of those women who proudly flaunt the grey mane and proclaim  that they are not  constrained by society’s patriarchal  notions of female attractiveness.  The truth is that at 35 I was not ready to reveal what closely resembled what I remembered as my grandmother’s white hair and at 60, I still find myself compelled to continue the charade.  It’s not so much that I am attempting to appear younger as the fact that the white haired version of me doesn’t feel like, well, ME.  Apparently I have yet to internalize the all grey me, which I realize is just a futile exercise in denial, but I just can’t stop.  Yet, anyway.  When the white skunk stripe emerges at the part line, as it inevitably does with shocking alacrity, there I am, back in Dan’s chair.

So my hair guy, Dan and I have an agreement:  we have a sworn oath that when the as yet unspecified time arrives when it is absurd to sport long light brown hair with artful lighter brown highlights, he will promise to tell me.  I trust him implicitly.  He tells me I am not there.  Not yet, anyway.


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Good Books!

Good Books!

Good Books!

Good Books!