Contemplations on Hair.

It's probably no surprise to anyone that women tend to have a love/hate relationship with their hair. We try to make it do things it's not intended to do and style it in ways that defy nature. We cut and color it on a whim, or to soothe an emotional upset. I've done all these things, and I'm going to blame it on my mother, because it all started with her.

My hair was never good enough, for whatever reason. I had home perms from the time I was 5 until I was 19 and said No More. (Now, some of you of a Certain Age may remember that back in the 70s, the Toni company had a special brand of gentle perms for kids, so my mom certainly wasn't the only one trying to give her child a head full of curls.) The problem was - and still is - my hair just doesn't hold curls for very long, perm or no perm. But Mother wanted curls, so that's what I did, because that's what I thought I was supposed to do. 

For awhile in my early 20s, I wore a pixie cut. It was easy, except going to the salon every 6 weeks for a trim wasn't really in my budget. I don't scrimp on hair care - I give myself the gift of going to a nice salon - but the upkeep got a little expensive. Plus, I discovered living history, which was going to require some creative hairstyling to be anything close to historically accurate, so I started growing out my hair.

To my great surprise, I discovered that my growing un-permed hair actually had a natural wave to it - not a lot, but it was definitely there. I thought it seemed unkempt, though, so I usually blew it out straight. And I grew it out almost to my waist. This was the first time in my life I'd ever had long hair. 

I grew it out long enough to donate some to Locks of Love. Then I wore an asymmetrical bob for awhile, grew it out again, trimmed it back, etc., etc., dyed it red for a number of years, experimented with vintage wet sets, various updos, decorative hair pieces, and so on. (I should point out that I do love styling hair, and have since I was a kid with the stylable Barbie head.) 

No matter what I did, I always had that little voice telling me it wasn't good enough. It was sloppy, it was frizzy, it was goofy - whatever. Then the pandammit happened, and I didn't feel the need to do all that styling all the time anymore. I also quit coloring my hair, mostly because it was getting too gray to bother.

Lately I've been trying to make friends with my unstyled, slightly wavy graying hair. I see plenty of other people with hair like mine, and I think they look fantastic. One of my best friends has gorgeous long wavy hair, and I've never once thought she looked sloppy or unkempt - so why do I tell *myself* that? Seems kinda unfair, really, not to extend myself the same courtesy that I do others.

I'm 55 years old now and the fact is, I don't have to care anymore. If I want to wear long witchy slightly-wavy unstyled hair, that's my prerogative; if it scares people off, I probably didn't want them around anyway. Oh, I'm still going to vintage-style it when I feel like it, but it's going to be because I want to, and not because anyone else expects it of me. 

Is it time for you to stop carrying the weight of other people's expectations? I hereby give you permission to put it all down.

Till next time -----

KFC

Be Who You Are.

 Welp. How y'all doin? I realize that's probably a silly question, given the state of the world and all. It's not like many of us are out whooping it up and raising Cain. Mister and I had the COVID a few weeks ago, after escaping it for over two years, but we're good now. Nobody went to the hospital and nobody died, so I'm taking that as a win. Yes, we have *all* the vaccinations.

Anyhow, one thing we started doing during the Pandammit was just watching random YouTube videos, mostly about cooking, music, gardening, and dogs, and maybe whatever else looked interesting. The other night, he happened upon a pre-pandoomic video from Ireland's Got Talent, so we watched it just for giggles. (Honestly, I hate those shows, but that's another topic for another day.)

The singer was an Irish Traveller, and she said she mostly sang traditional Irish songs, but for some inexplicable reason, she sang the standard "Stand By Me" instead. It was okay. Her voice was good enough but the song didn't fit her somehow, like it was a too-small pair of shoes or the wrong shade of lipstick. It was uncomfortable to watch. Mister and I both agreed the song didn't suit her voice.

When she finished, one of the judges asked why she hadn't chosen an Irish song if that's what she was used to singing. "Well, I was going to, but . . ." 

"What would you have sung?" he asked her.

"Probably something by Finbar Furey, but . . ."

"Which Finbar Furey song would you have chosen?"

"Probably Sweet Sixteen," she said.

"Well, sing it for us," the judge said.

She hesitated for a moment, and began the song. Y'ALL. It was the difference between night and day. Her voice rang out clear and strong and steady. She had a confidence she didn't have with the first song. It was, to use an old expression, like buttah.

Now, I tell you all that to tell you this, which is: be the person who suits you. I know most of us over a certain age were taught to do this, do that, do whatever it takes to fit into someone else's box. I'm about to turn 55 and I'm still undoing that mess. But in just five minutes, this singer illustrated it so perfectly. She doubted her true voice instead of leading with it, and the judge was perceptive enough to realize that.

Never doubt your true voice. Be who you are, and support others to do the same. 

Lands. We do live in "interesting times" these days, don't we? Plagues, wars, political divisiveness . . . But all that aside, what I really want to talk about is Sophia Loren's armpits.

I belong to several vintage groups on the FacePunch. People post photos & articles about vintage style, cars, food, whatever. Usually it's really cool to see what everyone shares, but there's one thing that's absolutely guaranteed to get people upset 100% of the time, and that is . . . Sophia Loren with armpit hair.

Back in the mid-20th century, European women shaving armpits regularly wasn't a thing yet. And really, in the grand scheme of time, women shaving is a relatively new concept, brought about by razor companies wanting to sell more razors in the early 1900s. Yep. What we accept now as a normal and expected grooming practice was a marketing ploy. (Yay, capitalism.)

Anyhow . . . there are mid-century photos of Sophia Loren, a marvelously beautiful woman, with armpit hair, and anytime one of these photos gets posted on the Interwebs, people inexplicably lose their shit, as if *hair* on a *mammal* is some awful, terrible thing. It's "gross," "nasty," "unattractive" --- you name it --- but nobody can seem to explain why they think it's gross, nasty, or unattractive beyond "women are supposed to shave."

Can y'all just take a moment and ruminate on the ridiculousness of that statement? 

Listen. I prefer to shave, but that's *my* choice and I have no expectation that all other women are going to do as I do. I also don't care. But why do we keep doing this to ourselves? It's the Twenty-First Century, for Pete's sake. Why are we still pressuring women to conform to arbitrary beauty standards? Now, y'all may think that's ironic coming from me, a person who LOVES her makeup, but while I do enjoy cosmetics, I also fully support women who don't want to wear makeup. 

And I support women who don't want to shave. What someone else does with their armpits ain't my bidness.

Until next time --- keep calm and carry on.

Buckle up, y'all. I'm fixin to talk about Naomi Osaka.

In case you haven't checked the news in a day or two, the tennis champ pulled out of the French Open, citing depression and anxiety issues, specifically around being required to address the press. While a good deal of public opinion is on her side, she's also been demeaned, vilified, and ridiculed for making this decision, mostly because too many people still don't take depression and anxiety seriously as a health issue.

Friends, it is most definitely a health issue.

Listen. I spent all of my teenage years and early adulthood in a cycle of depression. I knew I didn't feel good but I didn't know why, and I thought "this is just the way things are," so I pushed myself through it, over and over and over again. I didn't ask for help because I didn't know I needed help. I mean, I would have a bad spell, and then I'd get better, so it must not be that serious, right? But every time I went back into the hole, it was deeper than before. 

I was 34 years old before I dug a hole I couldn't get out of anymore. Think about that for a minute. Thirty. Four. Years. Old. I pushed myself through this on again/off again cycle from adolescence until well into adulthood before I finally asked for help. And y'all, I didn't have to do that. 

You might well ask why I didn't get help before. I've already said I didn't think I needed it, so I never mentioned it to anyone. And here's the funny (and very cruel) thing about depression - you often don't know how sick you really were until you come out on the other side. I thought crying in the bathroom every day at work, and crying in the car every day on the way home, was an effective coping mechanism. (News flash: it wasn't.)

I went to counseling. I got medication. I felt way better - but even then, I still had another breakdown. You can think you're ready to take things on, so you take on more than you're really ready for, and you crash again. 

It looks to me like Naomi is trying to prevent that crash. What many people are decrying as the actions of a "spoiled diva" who "doesn't want to do her job" is a young woman protecting her health. If she were a man, I imagine the reactions would be more like "oh, isn't he so brave for taking care of himself." And let's not forget that WOC often have their health concerns dismissed like they don't matter.

Look. Naomi Osaka doesn't owe us anything. She doesn't owe the world a performance, and she doesn't owe the press an appearance, regardless of what sport officials say. "But that's part of her job!" Really? Why? Why is it necessary to require athletes to talk to the press? It has ZERO to do with athletics. ZE.RO. Some people just want to play their game and go rest. Let them do it. If others want to talk to the press, fine. But don't *make* them.

Moreover, she doesn't owe us an explanation of why she did what she did, but she opened herself up, and that's an incredibly brave thing to do. We should be living in a more enlightened age, but the stigma around depression and anxiety is relentless and continues in spite of the best efforts of many organizations to educate the public about mental health.

I wish I had said "enough" when I was 23, instead of continuing to roll that boulder uphill for another 11 years. I still push the boulder, but now I have the presence of mind to know when to rest, and when to ask for help. 

If you or someone you know needs help with depression or anxiety, please call Mental Health America at 800-969-6642, or visit their website at https://www.mhanational.org/. Don't push the boulder uphill when you don't have to.

 A long, long, time ago, I told Mister that if my hair got too gray to fuss with dyeing it, it was just gonna go gray, and that was that, and hey, doesn't Emmylou Harris look stunning with those silver locks? Well, that time has finally arrived. I really liked having red hair all those years, but I've given up the dye box. 

I found my first gray hair 3 weeks after my 29th birthday. I'm 53 now and working on a couple of really good white streaks. There's still a little strawberry blonde near the ends, but it's mostly a salty-peppery-dark-ash-blonde at this point. And I'm okay with that. 

I'm not really afraid of aging. Sure, the physical changes and the random aches and pains can be annoying, but this is the natural order of things. If we live long enough, we age. There's nothing wrong with it, and there's no shame in it. So why do we keep insisting that Eternal Youth is some sort of holy grail? I spent my entire youth in a state of untreated depression, and in retrospect, it wasn't so great.

Now, don't get me wrong. If you want to look 25 forever, that's your prerogative, and as a Mary Kay lady, I'd be happy to help you with that. But by the same token, it's also your prerogative to *not* look 25 forever. I'm 53 and content to look my age - eye wrinkles, belly fat, and all. Well, I mean, I would like to reduce the belly fat for health reasons, since I have a family history of diabetes, but I'm not kidding myself that I will ever be a size 4 again. That ship sailed about 10 years ago. I'm still plenty strong and flexible for a roundish middle-aged lady, though, so don't misunderestimate me. (Yes, I know that's not a real word, but I like to bandy it about once in awhile, along with "strategery." Just a little something I picked up from the Bush years.)

Anyhow, what I'm saying is, don't feel pressured to look young forever. Take time to revel in the glory of being older and (hopefully) wiser. And don't forget to tell those kids to get off your lawn.

 Welp. Probably a silly question, but how y'all doin?

I haven't blogged since 2016. Shit happened, and it kept on happening. That particular year was already a dumpster fire - several of my personal friends died, as well as a few beloved famous people (including my favorite fiddler of all time, Dave Swarbrick), and let's not forget the political circus that seemed to permeate every aspect of the universe. To top it all off, I was turning 49, and having a lot of anxiety about 50. 

I did eventually turn 50, and I was convinced my life was pretty much over. I mean, women over 50 don't generally have a lot of prime career opportunities, and I had already been passed over for a job IN MY OWN OFFICE in favor of someone literally half my age, so you can see why my outlook wasn't stellar. Plus, there was The Menopause, the weight gain, and the gray hair. Good times, indeed.

Then there came the decline of my mother's health, then my stepfather's, then my dog's, then my cat's . . . well. I was tired, y'all. I kept going like I always had, probably against my better judgment, seeing as how I don't bounce back quite as high as I once did. And then . . .

Well, and then there was 2019. We had car trouble with both cars *simultaneously* for an extended period of time (thanks Firestone; never giving you my money again), and then our dog, Luna, was diagnosed with immune-mediated hemolytic anemia, or IMHA for short. Basically what happened was that her immune system started attacking her red blood cells. The odds of survival weren't great, but we wanted to at least give her a chance. Thing is, treating IMHA is ruinously expensive, and we maxed out a couple of credit cards and took a hunk out of our savings (already dented because of the aforementioned car trouble). Lucky thing I got a raise at work that year, I suppose.

Anyhow, to speed things along: Luna died the day before Thanksgiving 2019. Holidays sucked. Mother continued to get worse and then decided not to pursue further treatment for what was essentially an untreatable condition anyway. She died in February 2020. Two weeks later, Nashville had a major tornado, and two weeks after that, the whole world shut down. I've been working at home for over a year now, and this past January, had to say goodbye to our elder cat, Buster, who had chronic kidney disease and just gave out. 

I never had to call and make an appointment for euthanasia before. I don't particularly recommend it, but I know it was the right thing to do. But as I'm sure most of you know, the right thing is often extremely difficult. I mean, if it were easy, everyone would do it, right?

So, it's April 2021. We have a new dog, Teddy Blue Roosevelt. He's a young Labrador who doesn't understand how large and clumsy he is. Working at home is great because I can take him outside during lunch for an extended playtime. (Playing with a dog in the middle of the workday is a great mood booster. I highly recommend it.) I've finally made friends with being in my 50s, and I've stopped coloring my hair, so don't anyone look shocked if you happen to see me with this graying mane. I did finally get a trim, so at least I don't look quite as unkempt as I did two weeks ago.

I have watched ALL the TV shows. I watched Schitt's Creek twice and I'm not ruling out a threepeat.

I guess the big question on everyone's mind now is, what's next? Will we return to pre-pandemonium Business as Usual, or will we modify the old ways using the lessons we've learned over the past year? But most importantly: will we get to continue working in our pajamas, with reruns of The Golden Girls in the background? Gawd, I hope so.

Y'all take care, now. 

Can you ever forgive me?

Dear Friends,

It is with a heavy heart and the utmost sadness that I confess to you my transgression. I have disgraced myself beyond all hope (well, most of it, anyway). 

I mean, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Everything seemed like it was all in order. I had a solid plan. And when I went to execute the plan, it all went to hell, because I hadn't been paying close enough attention, and by the time I realized my mistake, it was too late. I was sunk.

Yes, friends. I mixed navy blue with black because I thought the blue was black to begin with. It looked black in the house. And when I stepped into the daylight, I saw that it was indeed blue, but at that point it was too late to go back inside and change clothes. So all day today, I am reminded of my grievous error. Maybe no one will notice.

Can you ever forgive me?