There are people like fashion editor Anna Wintour, who incidentally is nearly 69 and thus older than I am, who find a “look” for their hair (at 14 in her case) and stick with it the rest of their lives, along with the twice-daily blow dries scheduled to maintain it.
There are other people, like myself, who are more like flies, who when in want out and when out want in, who may be genuinely fond of their hair but wish it was long when it’s short and… Some of you may know what I mean.
Which probably has more to do with personality than aging except that… remember perms? Back in the day when the afro affected everyone’s style? Even after that, perms stuck around a while and were perfectly okay. Since I’m trying to grow my hair a little longer and it continuously flopped over my forehead and hung limply (the humidity, people say) I figured it could use some body, and then I spotted a photo of me at late 30ish and… well doesn’t she look nice, her hair sitting so thick and full against her collar, the front saying put, all that body. So I booked a perm.
Okay, it’s not super tight but I forgot that at late 30ish I was dark-haired. I forgot how much perms pull the whole mass up. Emerging from the chemical fumes, I thought Barbara Bush (minus the pearls) was looking back at me from the mirror. I’ve never met an older woman with a halo of soft white curls I didn’t like but still — confession time — my own inner ageism reacted. I feel I’ve aged myself too much and it bothers me. I wish it didn’t but it does.