I had lunch the other day with a group of ladies who were all about 20 years older than I am. It was completely delightful. But about midway through I realized I was the only one at the table with gray hair. Come on...really? Normally I wouldn't care about that -- never have before, obviously -- but there was something a little disquieting about being confronted with that kind of (unintentional) peer pressure at age 50 that got my attention. It honestly has just never occurred to me to color my hair. And then suddenly - BAM - the nagging suspicion that people don't like to be reminded that they are old, and therefore if I continue to insist on looking my age...perhaps my friends won't want to play with me anymore.
I have another friend who is gray and proud of it. She's truly a salt-and-pepper beauty, so I'd be proud of it too if I were sporting her striking do rather than my own mousy one. But we had a conversation one day in which she insisted there was a trend called "granny chic". I scoffed loudly and repeatedly. Maybe even snorted. That phrase was most certainly invented by a group of 60 year old women sitting around a table at lunch trying to feel better about the fact that they were no longer eating lunch together in a school cafeteria, but somewhere their grandchildren might be. Grannies are the anti-chic. Everyone knows that. That's part of why we love them...their well-used laps are made for sitting in, which more than compensates for any wrinkles. Or even whiskers.
Sure, there's something to be said for making the most of what we have in any situation, but I'm all for letting Barbara Walters look 83 because she's earned that privilege. I give her permission to relax, find a nice chair, and enjoy watching TV for a few years rather than making it. Not that I'm opposed to a little help if it's easy and won't make me end up looking like Joan Rivers -- I apply my sunscreen religiously now that I'm in Phoenix, for instance, fearful that I may age 10 years in the first 2. But I'm just saying that, as far as I'm concerned, Aunt Lillie's saggy breasts only made her more lovable, not less. I didn't care one whit that she forgot to wear a bra most of her life and certainly had no intention of putting one on for the big finale. I'm glad she liked herself enough to just be herself.
My mother has done a remarkable job of self-preservation. Her hair looks 15 years younger than mine, her teeth were purchased mid-stream and therefore still look great, she's worked hard to preserve her figure, and she never leaves the house without full makeup and freshly pressed attire. She hasn't missed a hair appointment in years, if ever. But somehow she failed to pass along that gene, and while I'm sure it causes her consternation, I'm grateful because sometimes looking at her makes me tired. She's been beautiful for a long time, and shows no signs of letting any of it slide. (Some husbands just get luckier than others.)
So to everyone who enjoys the hobby of making themselves look younger -- because at 50 I can see it's definitely going to have to become a full-on hobby, fighting an uphill battle to the finish -- I say good-luck and I will probably be a little envious of the results, even though I won't admit it. To my friends and family, I say oh well -- it's only going to keep getting grayer. And when the time comes, please don't have the mortician paint my fingernails or put lipstick on me either, because then no one will recognize me at the funeral.
It shouldn't be a surprise. As a school kid I consistently failed to wear what was in style too. And come to think of it, they didn't want me at the popular table then either. Proof that the older we get, the more like ourselves we become. Or that you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Or maybe that girls just want to have fun, and if sitting in a beauty salon hasn't ever been fun before, this dog isn't likely to start sniffing around one now.