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On the morning of my 40th birthday I sat up in bed, looked down at my own body and announced, "Well, I can't tie my breasts into a knot so I assume 40 will be okay." It was a joke. Mostly. I hope and expect I will be able to wake up on my 50th birthday and make the same pronouncement, but boy has my body changed.
I look at myself in the mirror and I see a woman with greying hair, with lines around her eyes, with a body that shows her age.
I noticed my first grey hair when I was in my early 20s. At that time I thought it was kind of cool, that it gave me some sort of élan. I didn't think much more about it until my early 30s. It wasn't that my hair was going grey, it was that it was going. I'd been through a pretty stressful breakup and was losing hair by the handful. I was terrified, wondering if I was going to have to shave my head or go wig shopping. I went to a dermatologist who (honestly but without much comfort) told me that I had thinning hair and there wasn't much I could do about it. He added that about 30% of women will experience hair loss in their lifetimes. I was a little on the young side for it, but it was just something I'd have to learn to live with.
The sharp terror was now eclipsed by a deep sense of distress and shame. Eventually those feelings faded some and I decided I would have to learn to live with it. I have spent many hours and many dollars looking for solutions. I'm fortunate, some of my hair came back, but it will never again be as thick as it was when I was young.
I still feel shame and embarrassment about it sometimes. Hair has such meaning in our culture (though that is another conversation) I feel a tremendous amount of discomfort writing this blog post and talking about it at all, but I am reminding myself that, if 30% of women are effected by this, some of you reading might be slightly relieved to know you aren't alone. You're not. I'm not. The only thing I ask is that next time we see each other, you try not to stare at my scalp.
I'm also not alone in my rapidly greying hair. About five years ago (when Kevin and I decided to move to Kansas City) my hair began to change at an accelerated rate. Now it's close to 50-50 grey and brown. I kind of like it. Alright, I definitely like it and have no interest in dying it. I have earned each and every of those grey hairs. Truthfully, I like most things about my hair (the color, the texture and curliness) though I wish there were more of it. When I was younger I always yearned for something other than what I had. Now I am generally content with what it is.
I look at myself in the mirror and I see a woman with wild, expressive greying hair, with lines around her eyes, with a body that shows her age.
When I smile I have lots of smile lines. I don't regret a single one though I sometimes poke at my less supple skin and am surprised by it. My wrinkles tell me that I haven't lived in a bell jar, that I have been willing to express my feelings, that I haven't hidden from myself or the world. I don't mind the wrinkles at all. The age spots on my arms startle me, but I remind myself of my mother's arms and how I alway loved her skin. It helps me love my own more. I can and do take care of my skin, but I cannot pretend it is not the skin of a woman closing in on 50. I'm okay with that.
I look at myself in the mirror and I see a woman with wild, expressive greying hair, with laugh lines around her eyes, with a body that shows her age.
Sure, my body has changed. I've never been a slender person, but my body is one that has loved and been loved, and worked, and supported the world on its shoulders. It's not perfect but it's mine. Yes, things sag more. I certainly hurt more than I used to. I have hairs growing in odd places (admit it, you do too). But it is a healthy body that loves and is loved. It gives and receives pleasure and comfort, expresses who I am without words, and takes up just enough space in the world. Sure, I would like it if I were shaped differently, if I were stronger, fitter, hell I'd like to be taller. But I am who I am. I can certainly control some of this (I exercise more now than I used to) but I do not feel a strong need to try to look like a young woman again. I am not young. Why not be who I am? Gravity will do its work and I will do mine.
I look at myself in the mirror and I see a woman with wild, expressive greying hair, with laugh lines around her eyes, with a body that shows her age and is still here. My body and appearance reflect what I have learned, how I have lived, and are an honest document of time, love, and loss. Even with age related changed, even with aches and pains, even with the knowledge that I will never look the way I wish I did, I am constantly reminded that I am still here. So many are not. And for that I am grateful and cherish my marks of age.
So it is. This is what 50 looks like. Wearing her age like a charm.
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