Midlife Crisis: The Unspooling

Here’s the ugly truth; a man with gray hair is considered distinguished but a woman with gray hair is old. It’s not my truth, but it’s a double standard our culture has willingly accepted.

Last week The Bullshitist published Metal Head Mom, a story about my life as a prematurely gray mother of three. I was in my thirties at the time and didn’t know diddly about aging. Now in my fifties, my perspective has changed considerably, so I thought it was time for an update.

If you read Metal Head Mom, you know that I turned prematurely gray in my late thirties and wore my gray hair loud and proud. I refused to allow society to dictate how I should look. I wouldn’t cave to social constructs that taught women their value was found only in their looks. I saw my gray hair as a bold feminist statement.

For awhile.

But as the years passed my gray hair seemed less ironic. It was no longer quaint or novel or cute. As middle age loomed large on the horizon, I suddenly didn’t want to be the Gray Panther poster child. I just wanted to look my age, while there was still time. And I sensed that window of opportunity was about to slam shut! So I made an appointment with my hairstylist, Bunny. I needed a makeover, stat!

“So, what’s your color preference?” Bunny asked as she shrouded me in a giant plastic bib. Good question. She may as well have asked me what species I’d like to be. My mind raced over the possibilities.

I’d been born with mousy brown hair. And when I say mousy I mean Stuart Little mousy. I was kind of a lanky thick-boned kid with a pretty substantial unibrow tucked under the bangs of my pixie cut. I took after my father’s side of the family; even the women had unibrows.

I’d also inherited Dad’s pasty white skin and my German grandmother’s childbearing hips. But God didn’t stop there, no, he’s a prankster, so to top it all off he gave me lips like a guppy. They were enormous and bright pink. If you’re picturing Don Knotts with a pixie cut, you’ve nailed it!

But those oversized lips didn’t worry me as much as the hips. No little girl wants to learn she’s got childbearing hips.

At the tender age of ten, I was clueless about sex. When asked, the most my mother would tell me was that babies came out “down below.” I only knew of two things that came out “down below.” The idea that something else could come out down there was new and daunting information. This was a game changer.

My entire fifth-grade year I lived in terror of my childbearing hips, worried that babies might start dropping out of me at any given moment. I spent fifth grade with my legs tightly crossed, just in case.

In sixth grade, we learned about reproduction in gym class, and I could finally unclench my legs. As I passed through puberty, my hips began to balance with the rest of me. I grew into the guppy lips and learned to feather my mousy brown hair. My mom even helped tame the unibrow, so I looked less like Groucho Marx.

Sitting in the hair salon, reliving my childhood trauma, I knew I could never go back to mousy brown. And suddenly the choice was clear.

“Let’s try blonde!” I said. I’d always heard that blondes had more fun and at forty-something with a wicked midlife crisis bearing down hard, more fun was exactly what I needed. Bunny went to work, and 90 minutes later I’d been transformed from gray panther to blonde cougar.

Was I turning my back on my principles? Was I a hypocrite? Was I in denial? Yup. Probably. But the mid-life crisis wants what it wants.

Being blonde was like assuming an alter ego. I felt like an entirely different woman. And I soon discovered that blondes do, indeed, have more fun. People were friendlier; they smiled more. Men opened doors and flirted with me. And while my midlife crisis raged on I loved every blonde moment of it.

For awhile.

I stayed a blonde for several years, but it never really felt authentic. I was a fraud. Deep down I was still the same girl from Broadmoor with the mousy brown hair and the unkempt unibrow. Eventually, my midlife moment passed, and sanity returned.

Last April I stopped dying my hair. It was time to say goodbye to blondie and get back to my roots (sorry). I had mixed feelings about going back, but as the silver grew in my fears dissolved. It felt right. It felt like coming home.

As women, we are expected to adhere to a certain standard of beauty and we’re often encouraged to cover our true nature. To trowel on makeup, glue on eyelashes, plump our lips, and botox the wrinkles away. And God forbid a gray hair should ever show itself!

So when did we get the message that age is the enemy, and who is still sending that message?

Let’s see, the US cosmetics industry made over $62 billion dollars last year, and globally the industry is expected to earn upwards of $265 billion in 2017. That’s a lot of lip gloss! It seems clear that the cosmetics industry has a vested interest in keeping the message alive.

Open any woman’s magazine, and you’re assaulted by ads pushing gravity-defying, time-rewinding, age-denying creams, dyes and spackles all designed to keep women looking young and beautiful. A constant reminder that age is the enemy.

I’m not advocating that women stop washing their hair or using products. If it feels right for you, do it. If you feel good about pink hair, by all means, get yourself some pink hair! Just don’t buy the message that beauty can only come from a bottle. Don’t let somebody else’s ideals define you.

Beauty comes from within and has nothing to do with the color of your hair, the size of your lips or how many trips around the sun you’ve made.

Middle age shouldn’t mean life is over. It should be the celebration of a new chapter. Hopefully, living through the first chapter, you’ve gained some valuable insight and wisdom. You’ve reconciled with your past and can face the future with confidence. You’re finally comfortable in your own skin.

My gray hair is no longer “premature.” It’s fully mature, and I’m owning it! It’s not a statement or a novelty. It doesn’t define me; it’s just part of who I am.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t see age, decline or aberration. I see confidence, strength and a woman who knows exactly who she is. I like the lady I see in the mirror. I like that she can still kick ass even with gray hair and an AARP card in her wallet. She’s owning it all, and ownership has its privileges.