Well, well, well, it is time for a bit of nonsense.
Let’s talk about that all important subject … bangs.
Not the ones from guns, but the kind women try to figure out what to do with. Short bangs? Long bangs? No bangs?
And that other option … bag over head.
My bangs are growing out. Actually, they always grow, but I am not cutting them. I am also growing my hair out a bit as I thought I looked too close to a pinhead.
I do this periodically. It is a land of peril and bad hair days.
It is also one of those things I feel compelled to explain to people when I see them.
“Oh, I am growing my bangs out. That’s why I look like this.”
As if they care.
Who among us has not tried to grow out our bangs or hair? I guess I need the change or am trying to fool myself that in doing so, twenty years will go away from my face.
Which brings me to another thing … my face.
It is a fine face ,as far as faces go. But it is 64 and a half. I have also observed that my nose has started growing, again. Yessirreebob. It is on the march. Either that, or like the rest of me, my head is shrinking.
Oh, what the Helsinki, while I am at it, the other day I had to go to the dentist and get a crown.
It was a new dentist, since we are now in South Carolina.Oh, you’ll get a kick out of this. We are coming to Cincinnati in a couple of weeks and I was so perplexed and hadn’t found a new dentist, so I made apps for Nick and I at our old dentist, just in case I didn’t have any luck finding one down here.
After doing so and thinking that was a bit nuts, I located a dentist office in York and went to see if they were aliens.
They weren’t. Everyone in the office was delightful, as friendly as a good Southerner should be. So … moving on with the dentist, too.
Anyhow, back to the subject.
While reclining in the dentist chair, getting a big old silver filling drilled out, all I could think about was the white eyebrows I have been getting.
Those deserve their own curse word, so I shall make one up. Crumb-duck! Those eyebrows are curmb-duck. They are like thistles that grow against the grain. If they want to stick up, they stick up.
I KNEW the dentist was having a hard time looking at my tooth because he had to be staring at the handful, (20) white eyebrows.
My only saving grace was that when he told me if I needed them to stop, I should raise my left hand. At that moment, I did my dead roach imitation by lifting both legs and my arms towards the sky, and shaking them.
“Would that get your attention?” I said.
This post is sort of like an “American Pickers” freestyle … rather random and veers off course.
Back to my bangs for a second.
Why am I growing my bangs when it is a pain?
Change. And I don’t like how my bangs are only at the proper length and behavior for about three days. The rest of the time, they have this little wave that causes them to flip like wing-tipped glasses.
And I am a person of change.
Many people have a similar hairstyle forever. They know what they like, it looks good and voila. They are good.
But I have never been like that. I fret about what to do with my hair. It really is ridiculous.
It might be part of my need to reinvent myself. It might be a search for something elusive, like a hairstyle that says, “This is me. This hairstyle is a representation of who I am.”
And I haven’t found it yet.
And so, at 64 and a big half, I keep trying.
I know what is going to happen. I am going to go through this whole process of growing my bangs out and getting my hair a bit longer, and one day I will say, “This mop has got to go,” and off to the salon I will go to get it all whacked off.
One of my granddaughters told me that I should shave my head.
And, having mentioned that, there are times when I think, you ridiculous girl, you, so many women don’t have a choice whether to grow their bangs or not grow bangs as they have lost their hair to chemo.
How shallow I feel putting such emphasis on such a thing.
Part of my angst right now is that I don’t want to look like an aardvark when I return to Norwood to see my friends and speak at the Alumni do. When I left Norwood, I was 18. Returning, I am 64 and that magic half.
I know I will want to say to that auditorium of high school students, “Hey, I didn’t always look like this. I was young once, too!”
I feel that these days. Instead of just being … I sometimes find myself apologizing for not being younger, still. It is a stupid and crazy thing.
I go back and forth, loving the freedom that age can give in terms of expectations. Put on your gummers and be comfortable. And then, on the other hand, missing my younger body and mind and drive.
Acceptance is such a key part of this thing called life. Accepting that there is always going to be someone younger, prettier, smarter, funnier. Accepting that sometimes, your mind and body are what they are and thinking God for your existence instead of trying to turn back the clock or hide from the reality of what is, today.
Acceptance that our society is a youth-driven culture, and not letting that make you turn sour. Accepting that bad hair days really are irrelevant and it is better to put your energy somewhere else.
So, after putting my in-between bangs into a ponytail and going around looking like a unicorn, I shall get on with life, and focus on others, as it is a lot more fun than focusing in myself.
Oh, I got a diffuser for “essential oils.” I am not sure how essential they are, but I thought it would be fun to play spa.