By 
One more timeI’m in the beauty salon, getting my hair done and getting a haircut. The color is already, seeping through my hair follicles, changing the gray roots and faded color to a vibrant reddish brown. In twenty minutes or so, the stylist will shampoo the dye and then I will sit quietly in the chair while she cuts my hair, shaping it into a disheveled mess in the style I like. I will watch her work in the large mirror that I face and once again enjoy the metamorphosis of a tired old woman to a vibrant woman in her fifties or sixties somewhat attractive (or so I hope).
My mother had red hair and when it started to fade, it quickly dyed it. At 92, her hair was still red and she looked at least a dozen years younger than her. When she died, she left a drawer full of creams and lotions to reduce wrinkles, freckles and age spots, as well as a large bag full of makeup. In my 30s and 40s, I watched his efforts to fight aging and swore long before I had a single gray hair that he would come of age gracefully. I would accept changes in my body (and my head) as a natural part of life. Dye would never touch my head and celebrate the wrinkles on my face as evidence of a life well lived.
Then I attended a workshop called “Finding your colors” and found out that it was “fall.” My color wheel (the colors that complimented me) was the same as the September / October landscape in the Northeast; burnt orange, brown, yellow hues, darker reds, muted greens. With this knowledge, I started shopping for new clothes that would complement my hair and skin tones. I overlooked black and gray items, and over the next several years my closet began to look like a glorious fall day.
Then the first gray hairs appeared. At first, I ignored them or removed the offending strand from my head. Mind you, that hair grew back and was usually accompanied by a dozen more. In the end, I was faced with a choice: do I hold on to my aging feelings naturally or do I accept the fact that gray is not a good color for me and do something about it?
First, I discussed the options with my stylist. She suggested a natural hair color that would lighten faster but would not harm the environment or my head. This seemed like a good compromise. Immediately, I loved the color (reddish brown) which was very close to the natural color of my youth. I got a lot of compliments and felt like I had lost at least a dozen years. However, this color did not last as long as I would like and as my hair became grayer, the product did not cover my roots.
I was faced with a tough decision: stick with my original statement and reach old age looking old (plus wearing a color that wasn’t on my palette) or give it up and dye my hair regularly. I pondered this important existential question for at least ten minutes.
A few years later, I started to notice that my eyes weren’t that prominent and my lashes were fading. One day, I was passing the cosmetics section of a department store when a young woman in a colorful robe stopped me and asked if I’d be interested in a makeover. I had never worn a lot of makeup, but this sounded like fun. So I said yes, I sat in her chair and gave myself to her care for the next 30 minutes. When he finished and I looked at myself in the mirror, I didn’t recognize myself. My first impulse was to immediately go to the bathroom and wash my face. But then I looked a little closer and there were a few things that I liked, like the eyeliner and mascara. And that big red spot on my right cheek was completely gone. Before I left the cosmetics department, I had spent over seventy dollars on makeup, which was, of course, what it was all about.
So I added some new items to my bathroom drawer. That’s when I realized that getting dressed in the morning or going out at night was taking a bit longer. The eyeliner was slipping from my hand and leaving a crooked black line over my eye. The mascara smudged and ran down my cheek. I was going through a lot of tissues. When my stylist told me that he was going to offer permanent eyeliner treatments, I considered it. My promise to reach old age naturally was disappearing as fast as wrinkles appeared!
The dermatologist was my next downfall. I went for my annual checkup and while in the waiting room I noticed a closet full of skin care products. I went to see them (which is exactly what they wanted) and noticed an anti-wrinkle cream that was “dermatologist recommended.” Well why not give it a try? Unfortunately my insurance didn’t cover the cream, but I was hooked. I’m still not sure if it works, but I’m addicted, sure my face will completely deteriorate without it. However, now I see a dermatologist who has a sign in his office that says he neither sells nor recommends beauty products.
I know I should wear my age with grace and pride. I have seen other old women whose faces openly show their age and the trials of their lives and I admire them. When I come across these beautiful faces, I am fascinated by the wrinkles, the crevices, the laugh lines, the faded but vibrant eyes, the (sometimes) sparse white hair. I suppress the urge to talk to them and ask about their lives, and I’m usually content with secret glances their way. I am attracted to the beauty of natural aging.
And yet I have chosen, as my mother did before me, to use some products to slow down the aging process or to hide it. My biggest fear is that one day I’ll be in the hospital or nursing home without my stylist and cosmetic bag and won’t be able to apply a little lipstick, a thin line of eyeliner, a mascara smudge, and my kids. And my friends will say, “Wow. It looks so bad and it’s gotten so old.”
So I am thinking of pre-hiring a friend or cosmetologist who will automatically be contacted if I am in this position and she will apply the necessary elements to improve my appearance. And then wherever I am, I’ll be happy.