Letting Myself Go
Yes, it’s true. I’ve let myself go. It started with the quarantine in March when I began working from home on a full-time basis. Separated from co-workers, fellow parishioners, family, friends, and their imagined scrutiny, I no longer needed to be subjected to the hour and a half drudgery of making myself presentable each day. The daily grind that once consisted of shower, makeup, multiple hair products, blow dryer, flat iron and curling iron has been reduced to a quick shower, throwing on whatever comfy clothes are on hand, and then situating myself in my home office with my hair still wet. Horror.
Sandal season arrived with no effort made toward painted toenails. Before COVID, I would never have considered the idea of showing my feet in public without having some delicious shade of wine or sherbet on my nails. These days I slip my monotone feet into a pair of flip flops and without a second thought head out to the grocery store, post office, or whatever errand I happen to be running.
A couple of weeks into isolation, I took to entertaining the idea of going gray. I’d long since grown tired of the unrelenting requirement of coloring my hair every four weeks just to keep it from looking brassy and faded. In truth, I’d been thinking about it ever since seeing myself in a photo with an unnatural orange tint radiating from my head. It was then that I started wondering what would be the right age to show my true colors. I mentioned it to a few friends. “I’m thinking of going gray,” I nonchalantly cast the line then waited to see what I would pull back. The response? A horrified, “No!” Followed by, “You’ll look so old!” I considered their words and landed on the number sixty. Sixty would be sufficiently old enough for gray hair. But as I sat in my house day after day with the distance between me and the opinions of others growing, curiosity and laziness gradually took hold.
I began asking myself questions. Do I really want to keep striving to look 30- or 40-something? Why? What’s wrong with looking my actual age? My questions took on a more philosophical bent. Why as a society do we put so much value on youth? Is it only the young who can be beautiful? Why do we as women shame each other with the threat of looking old if we don’t keep up the charade? For all our talk of being strong, independent, and advanced, it would seem that we are still slaves to the mentality that a woman’s value is in her appearance.
The decision was made. I was done with coloring my hair. Besides, there was a box of the stuff under the bathroom sink that I could break open in case of emergency.
A few weeks passed and I began to notice that when I pushed my glasses back onto the top of my head pulling my hair back from my face with them, the gray became more and more prominent. My hair had always been a point of vanity. The majority of my pre-quarantine morning had consisted of trying to get each strand just right. Once achieving the goal of a good hair day, no disaster could equal that of having to go outside when the humidity was high which is practically every day in Alabama.
Many days I was unsure whether this was what I really wanted. Maybe it was too soon. Maybe I should open the stashed box of color and go back to waiting on sixty.
One night while my husband and I stood in front of the bathroom mirror getting ready for bed, I caught him watching me as I ran my hands through my hair inspecting my reflection with a critical eye. I scowled at the multi-colored shades of brown, red, blond, and white resulting from the growing out process. For the umpteenth time I asked myself if I should abandon this idea. As if reading my thoughts, he announced in his most matter-of-fact tone, “I like your gray.”
“Yeah?” I searched his face judging his sincerity.
Turning back to the mirror, it was as if the lens that I’d been looking through had been turned ever so slightly bringing the image before me into clearer focus. I noticed how the gray had begun to frame my face softening my features and giving me a brighter look. I saw something else there in the looking glass. A middle-aged woman. A mother to grown children. A grandmother. I saw who I was, who I am, and who I am becoming all at once, and I embraced them all no longer afraid to loosen my grip on the younger me. Okay. I thought. Okay.
Yes. I’ve let myself go, and in doing that, I’ve found myself.