Arylide

I color my hair a head-turning brilliant blonde.  Some might call it platinum; I prefer to think of it as something along the lines of the shiny paleness of corn silk. Coupled, most days by default, with a mass of unkempt curls cascading down my back, volume control wrested out of my hands by the weather, I’m often told I can be spotted a mile away by my hair. Does this make me look more youthful?  Maybe.  Does this make me a beacon men of all ages hone in on from a distance curious for a closer look?  Probably.  Are these the reasons why I do it?  No.

I’ve been ‘brightening” my tresses for what feels like forever. Like most of us native towheads, I watched my hair darken over the years.  Alarmed into action after the birth of my second baby, I remember vividly, fifteen years ago, looking at my bleary blandness in the mirror and deciding I wanted to return to me.  I’ve always felt at home as a blonde. Maybe this is why hair coloring for me doesn’t feel the least bit contrived, unnatural or disingenuous. My decision to do this is my choice, made before I “had to”, so to speak, but inevitably every woman is confronted with our society’s pernicious aversion to aging around the question of covering her grays.

It is bitterly ironic that just as we really come into our own in our forties and fifties with a focused awareness of the gifts we have to offer the world and the confidence to put them out there, our superficial society turns its back on us because our bodies begin to show signs of age.  I like to think that gray hair, laugh lines, the way the skin on our faces thins and veins become more prominent on our hands, that these are all badges of honor we earn for the ups and downs we’ve weathered garnering knowledge and wisdom over the course of a lifetime. It’s more than unfortunate that our youth-obsessed culture broadcasts such a different message.

As we age, women become invisible. This is heartbreaking to me.

Women are in the throes of a major identity crisis. Never have we been more powerful and self-sufficient.  We’re changing the world all over the place, and yet even though we know better, we can’t help but tie our self-worth to how we look.  The pressure to alter our physical appearance in an attempt to slow the natural and inevitable aging process is suffocating.  It’s most damaging consequences are in how we ultimately see and value ourselves. Our men are socialized to believe that women get less attractive with age, and can unwittingly contribute to the sense of worthlessness a woman feels when she looks at herself in the mirror as grays creep in, wrinkles become more pronounced, extra pounds make themselves at home, and gravity’s forces take hold.

For women dating during middle age, it feels like there’s an entirely new biological clock ticking. No longer worried about fertility, now the burning question is whether we’ll ever be able to attract a man if we’re unsuccessful in doing so before our youth fades.  We think about men as the perpetrators, but honestly I think they’re victims to some degree.  They’re fighting their own pressures; it’s a common message in our society that older men belong with younger, attractive women. Given the choice it seems that’s what many want.

I’ll admit I use my wrinkle cream religiously.  Maybe it’s nothing more than an expensive placebo, but it seems to be working and it feels innocuous to me.  I know I draw the line at injections and cosmetic surgery.  And I’ve always imagined that someday I will stop coloring my hair and be at peace with my long, curly gray hair.  Every one of us, if we’re lucky, will ultimately need to deal with getting old.  Ladies, I say we make sure we’re doing this in whatever way feels true to ourselves; we should never feel like we need to change what we look like on the outside to be beautiful, worthy or loved.

One of the many women Brene Brown interviewed for her book “I Thought It Was Just Me (but it isn’t)” says that instead of investing time and money in a futile quest to prevent aging, she’d rather use her time redefining “what it means to get old”. I like this.

 

And so I think about what getting older means to me: It feels like it ought to be a gift that anyone who makes it that far in life is fortunate to receive.  I’m confident I’ll have wisdom to share and hope to have my wits about me so I’m able to do just that.  And I never, ever want to lose my voice.  I’m convinced it houses my power.  One of the things I find so amazing about writing is that it’s almost impossible to tell how old an author is by her written words.  Maybe this is my secret weapon against the invisibility I am certain to encounter.

 

These words of Leo Buscaglia found their way into my Christmas card a few years ago and bear repeating: 

 “If you love someone, you’ll look at him very carefully.  He is changing each day through a beautiful, gradual process which you will surely miss if you do not learn to watch. When is the last time you looked at your wife or husband’s face, your child’s face, your mother’s face?  For that matter, how long has it been since you looked deeply at yourself, not while shaving or washing or putting on eye shadow, but at a moment of peace, just looking?”

This is aging.  And it truly is a gift to behold.