Protected: 50 Stories, Week 32: California
Protected: 50 Stories, Week 31: To All The Girls I’ve Loved Before, Part 2
Protected: 50 Stories, Week 24: Congratulations
Protected: 50 Stories, Week 13: Yellowstone Summer
Protected: 50 Stories, Week 11: Just The Two of Us
Protected: 50 Stories, Week 10: Coco, It Was My Privilege
Protected: 50 Stories, Week 1: A Fistful
So, I shaved my head.
It’s not alopecia (but I feel for you, Ricki Lake!)
I’m not having a breakdown (remember Britney’s bald moment? though looking back, who could blame her?)
I’m not ill (fingers crossed, though cancer may get us all eventually.)
And I’m not trying to make a political or power statement.
What I am is a 49 year old woman working in the advertising industry in NYC. I am a woman who started dying my roots before I had gray hair and had no idea what my ‘real’ hair looked like. I am a woman who spends thousands of dollars each year to look younger, better, and different than I am.
A few years ago, I started to see and feel the real signs of aging – sagging neck and jowls, constant dry skin, waking up in the middle of the night feeling like someone turned the oven on, and an inability to power through even the slightest hangover or exercise injury. But still people would say, “I can’t believe you’re 40+ years old! I can’t believe you have a son in college!” And my little ego would perk up and it would validate the work I was putting into looking young.
My industry, like many, is not kind to aging women, in particular. And in our society, you’re forgotten, dismissed, literally not paid attention to once you are no longer aspiring to be a beautiful young thing with tits up to here and an ass you can bounce a quarter on. Though, to be fair, I do still have a fine ass. (Thanks yoga and genetics!) So I get it – we work hard to stay relevant, or at least look like we’re trying to. Not to mention all the work we do to our faces to stay ‘youthful’! But there’s a difference between a nice hydrated dewy face and spending thousands to literally keep your chin up.
Listen, I fully support anyone who dyes and decorates their hair, wears wigs, cuts it all sorts of ways. I just hope they’re doing it because they want to – not because they think they need to.
For me, though, I’m tired. And curious. What would it look like if I was just myself for a while? If I came to love the extra five pounds I’ve been carrying around my gut? If I accepted my graying hair and loss of collagen in my neck? What could I do with the energy spent trying to be someone else?
It can be difficult to live a life where people question your decisions, when the things you know are right for you aren’t right for most. Especially for the people who love you. I’ve been doing this since I was a child. The decisions that feel right in my gut, in my soul, have rarely been traditional. I’m not saying they’re interesting, they’re just different.
I don’t want an ordinary life. I don’t want to look like or be like anyone else. And for maybe the first time in my life, I give zero fucks (ok, maybe I give a little fuck, but I am pushing that voice down,) about what others think. Of course I care about what my husband and son think but all I can do is hope they love me, as I am.
This act feels rebellious, yes, but it also feels natural. Right. For now. For me. I can see my gray! I can see my misshapen head. I can feel my scalp. And my curiosity is satiated, for now. When I look at the mass of hair in my trash bin, I don’t know that person any more. That isn’t me.
This is me.
Or maybe I’m just bored.