Everybody under the age of 30 looks 12 to me. Honestly, are there even any actual adults working in banks or stores anymore? Even the dude selling me a car doesn’t look old enough to vote.
Being on the cusp of the jaunty decade that will be my fifties, I understand, at least theoretically, that I look my age. It’s not like I have any horse anesthetic injected in my forehead crinkles, nor is there any bit of me worth tattooing. (I understand you need at least a few square inches of taught skin for the artist not to produce a Salvador Dali creation that jiggles when you walk.) So really, I get it that the under 30 set views me as practically a geriatric.
I don’t have any real issue with being viewed as old and harmless. There are advantages to being a stealth 30 year old in a 50 year old costume. For instance, when I ask for help carrying a heavy purchase from some young buck at the hardware store just so I can look at his ass, he has no idea of my ploy. Dirty old ladies are real, just ask my friends.
Where the friction point between generations is for me, a late Gen Ex, and my Millennial hairdresser (or is it stylist, I am never sure) is my haircuts. When my usual hair artist went on maternity leave, I kind of bounced around trying to find a new home for my locks. Apparently, there is nobody over 40 doing hair, so I went with a series of young people to see what new style I could rock the world with. I mean these youngsters set the standard for music, social media, fashion and coffee shops… can they not help one grouchy old girl with her hair?
I started with an appointment at a local trendy salon. I was assigned to this diminutive hottie from the Philippines. He had funky hair and was not afraid of multi coloured spikes. He had promise. As he stepped on his stool and put the cape over my head, it felt like Edward Scissorhands was grooving through my hair. This was going to be the one… I knew it.
Alas, it was a mediocre haircut and I waddled out of the salon with no spikes of my own. Apparently I am not spike worthy.
The next three young women disregarded my requests for interesting colour combinations and a modern cut. Nope, I left all of their salons looking like Mama from the Carol Burnett Show.
I used some decidedly unladylike language each time I grumbled my way into the car. Have I gotten to the point where I go in for a style and curler set once a week and wear a shower cap in between appointments? Am I really there?
And what is worse is that I am trying to keep it classy, but the struggle is real. I try not to look like that woman with lower back length hair that sweeps just above regrettable upper ass tattoo and and g-string… you know the kind “I am struggling with my age, so I will wear my hair really long and keep wearing my shoulder pad jackets.” On the opposite end, I am not ready for pincurls and blue rinse either.
Trusting a fresh out of diapers amateur slip of a girl or a punk rock little dude a hairdressers did not work out for me. I needed my own stylist to be done with the babymaking and focus on what matters… my hair. She is honest and doesn’t let me look dated or pathetic, at least I hope not.
In the meantime, I went to somebody on the north side of 40 with many years of experience and I thought she did a fine job of my cut and colour, until my teenage daughter cut me to the quick.
I came home with my new do. She eyeballed me for a bit and said: “Did you mean to get a “I want to talk to your manager” middle age woman haircut?”
True Story.
Damn meddling kids…..
(This post first appeared on Magnolia Ripkin Advice Blog)
1 Comment
‘Mom, that kind of cut is for us. Not for you.’ Us meaning something between 10 and 20. She is 11.
Bad luck, kiddo. I like it and i rock it.
Yay, I embarrased my teen!
The struggle is oh so real..