For me, growing old gracefully means I embrace the maturation of body, mind, and soul. I don’t borrow my daughter’s clothes and I’ve updated my wardrobe in the last decade. HOWEVER, it does NOT mean that I don’t, on occasion, lie about my age. I still buy a shirt or dress from the junior’s department, but only if it’s a super sale and doesn’t make me look 14.
Truth be told, I think I’m a better woman with a few years of joy, heartache, and experience on my side. I just don’t want my gray hairs to represent my journey through life. I’m not a tree and I don’t want anybody counting my rings or grays for that matter.
I knew it was time to change the hair when my daughter asked me a very earnest question over an after school snack. She leaned over her chair and looked into my eyes with all the seriousness a barely seven year can muster. Between licks of an Oreo, she asked “Were you one of the woman who sewed America’s first flag?”
“Why FringeKid, my darling child, I only developed my sewing skills after the last stitch in that flag was completed.” Thankfully she’s my own flesh and blood or I may have flogged her for that question.
Just a few days later FringeSoldier, my brother-in-law, popped in for a visit. As we laughed and joked across the table, he squinted, his eyes focusing in on my head. “What?” I asked knowing I really didn’t want to hear.
“Nothing.” He said. “It’s just that you’ve gotten a lot of grays.”
How he strings a line of girls across our great nation I’ll never understand. I immediately called and made an appointment to have my hair highlighted. My grays can still be camouflaged by highlights.
First I got a haircut. I thought bangs would be different, fresh, and youthful. My stylist likes me because I let her do what she thinks best. I don’t do this with all people wielding a pair of scissors. I’ve learned my lesson with one BAD HAIRCUT too many. If you haven’t read about my bad haircut, click HERE.
Next I got color. Me, lighter and brighter…no grays. In real life and light the blond is slightly shocking.
Only stripes! Old people don’t wear stripes on their head, do they?
FringeMan now lovingly calls me “Stripe”. It’s the price I pay to stay youthful.
Are you aging gracefully?
What does that even mean to you?