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Lendon Murrell

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Lucy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve been coming to terms with the aging process. I am not a rebel so no red hat society for me. My idea of rebellion outside of my mind would be to put an ugly stamp on the bill for the electric. So I was looking in the mirror which I can do at my age with a remarkable talent for dyspathy. My hair had grown quite long over several years. Straight and shiny it had been my intent to arrive triumphantly to the nursing home with this long silver braid of hair to the envy of all the other residents.

But as can happen to a woman my eyebrow started to twitch as I looked at myself. Who was I trying to be thirty in a fifty four year old suit? From the back my hair was still almost black with squiggly gray hairs popping here and there. Quite pretty. from the front my face hung saggy with burgeoning jowls down from too fat cheeks. My neck was developing rolls from which I quickly removed my attention so I would not scream in such a way as to bring the neighbors running with plastic buckets for the fire. My chin had slid under my jaw. There was nothing to be done. It was what it was but the hair. The hair I could cut away. Join the club of too late to fix it and let all of my faults flap in the winter winds outside.

This sent me to the computer where I searched for short haircuts for over fifty. All the models seemed young and the hair flowing and sexy around their perfect features. I was studious about studying my options while I tried styles on in my head. Finally I had to admit defeat. I went one step further. Short haircuts over sixty. There I was my peer group. There really was so little left to raise my flag about. Short pixies sold as effortless but in reality letting you know you wouldn’t have to call for help to fix your hair for another six months. The slippery sliding ski slope of life with no ski lift in site. I lifted my jowls in a pretend face lift and let them drop. Lifted them and let them drop.

It’s at this point as any woman can tell you that calling the hair salon becomes a nine one one emergency.  ” Hello?”  “Do you have time today?!” while you suppress a high pitched panicked sound. Yes they can fit you in.

Then it is done. You drive home knowing you have just signed up for daily scarves to hide your neck. You do not look how Raquel Welsh looked in her wig commercial. Now your grandmothers dinner plate earlobes are out in the open.  I brought home the hair wax with the delicious scent so I could “sculpt” my hair into different styles. I would use it.  I will spike my hair straight up and out, this way and that. I will get away with it because I am “of a certain age.”  I will get compliments on how modern a look I have chosen.  I will smile and thank everyone.  It will be a true reflection of what I think about the whole business of aging. No hat needed.

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