Okay, so it’s not makeup. I really can’t limit myself strictly to makeup, though, because Birchbox has introduced me to other great products as well, and this is one my my favorites. In fact, I like it so much that I gave it to my sister for her birthday. Her hair tangles like no one’s I’ve ever seen, and it didn’t take her long to figure out that this works better than any other detangler she’s ever tried.
I use it primarily as a protector and smoother. I spray this marvelous smelling stuff on my damp hair and either let it dry or blow it dry. Then, when I use my flat iron later, I get that smooth glossy hair we all want.
I was dining with friends, recently, when one of them looked at me and commented that “women our age” have usually settled in and been wearing the same hairstyle for years, but I change mine all the time. She’s right, of course. I’ve had two colors and three cuts since my profile photo was taken last December. Her comment started me thinking, though… Women of our age?
Like most 53-year-old women, I deal with certain age-related issues, but on a practical level I tend to forget I’m 53. I have to remind myself that, age wise, I’m not really my co-workers’ contemporary (speaking of the young mothers on staff). I am ever surprised when my body abruptly tells me it would rather not obey a command. I’ve definitely not “settled in” – be it to a hairstyle or anything else.
The hair? Well, on one level I’m fickle and enjoy change too much to stay with one look for too long. I also appreciate the freshness certain changes bring–though I contrarily fight change in many other areas.
I’m just musing here, really. I’m still smiling and wondering about that phrase: women of our age.
Were I to tell you the story of my life, you’d understand why, unlike some, I’m proud of every birthday. I may forget how old I am and have to do the math (Not a sign of age. That December birthday has always thrown me.), but I proudly admit to every year because I could have been dead more than once…and I’m convinced I’d have ended up in a psych ward somewhere if it weren’t for God…but here I am.
Truly, it may have been through hell and high water, but I’ve made it this far, and I’m still standing.
We were in the back of our Girl Scout leader’s car, on our way to a campout, when I overheard a girl with short, curly hair telling the story of the day years before when she had gotten her incredibly long hair cut off. As I heard the details, I popped up and interrupted her to ask if she remembered two girls watching. She did, and I informed her that I was one of those girls. RAM – Randomly, I instantly accessed a memory I’d totally forgotten. (And, just as randomly, is was the “Hare Today” title of a previous post that triggered this memory as well as inspiring today’s title.)
Mother was a hair stylist (We called them beauticians in those days.) until I was in Junior High and my parents started a business. As a result of her profession, Clarissa and I spent many hours in various salons. The day the girl came in with the longest hair I’d ever seen on a child (she could sit on it) and cut it SHORT really had burned itself into my hard drive. I may not access the information often, but it’s there.
I remember being appalled. I remember being astounded that she was so happy with her new ‘do.’ I remember being convinced that she would regret it forever.
How often, in life, are we able to get answers to our impossible questions? I mean, really? When I realized who she was, I had to know. Had she regretted it? Ever?
“Never!” she said with a smile.
No, it wasn’t one of the great questions of the universe, but it was satisfying to finally have it answered nonetheless. I love it when things like that happen!