The secret superpower of middle age: Part 1
“The Farrah Fawcett Flick is still in place, in fact just like The Whopper, it’s obviously index-linked because even Farrah couldn’t have kept this tsunami in place.”
Yesterday I went to the hairdressers, and having had very little sleep the night before, sat zombie-like in the chair for an hour while Danny faffed about, hopping either side of the chair, twirling this way, snipping that way.
I can say ‘faff’ because he was … taking his time, trying to get it right, enjoying himself … I have, you see, a lot of hair. And it’s thick and pliable – a hairdresser’s dream. Even if it’s short, it’s bountiful and many is the time I’ve sat bemused as they’ve styled it this way and that, tonged it, flicked it, attacked it with a monster diffuser attachment or taken one of those scary brushes, with bristles longer than a porcupine, and twisted it brutally tight to my scalp.
Have I ever yelped? Or flinched when the scalding water, which they’ve supposedly tested against the back of their hands, hits my neck?
No, historically, I have not.
Keep reading …
So, back to Danny.
Time is getting on, I don’t have anywhere to be but my patience levels are running low. Most of the cut has been done, it’s partially dry, it’s looking good and yet … and yet … Danny keeps working my fringe into the kind of side flick Farrah Fawcett sported back in 1976.
He’ll sort it, I think, and go back to my Reddit gossip thread on Harry and Meghan.
Clip, clip, clip.
I sneak a peek. The flick is still there, perhaps even bigger.
He’s not really going to leave it like that, I reassure myself.
Snip, snip, tweak … hop, faff, flick and …
Danny makes a last leap backward, whips out that rearview oval mirror which we all know denotes THE END and says, So how’s that?
Ok, this is why I wanted you to keep reading. Are you ready to learn the superpower I promised?
Some of you will already know it. For those you don’t, who are perhaps a little younger, I promise that once you reach a certain age what I’m about to describe is absolutely true and is, I’ve come to understand, so powerful, it has to be kept a secret. Has to be kept away from the young: they have their narrow waistlines and smooth skin - this is our compensation, our joy and raison d’étre, all rolled into one.
How’s that? Danny says again and this time there is the the teeniest tiniest note of hesitation in his voice.
I lean forward, narrow my eyes. The Farrah Fawcett Flick is still in place, in fact just like The Whopper, it’s obviously index-linked because even Farrah couldn’t have kept this tsunami in place. And all the Elnett in the world isn’t going to tame it!
I look at Danny (through the mirror). He’s obviously serious, and that in itself trips my switch. The fact that a man born in 1994 seriously believes that a woman born in 1967, a woman who has trekked volcanoes and swum with sharks, shat out her insides with E. coli in Indonesia and eaten fish head curry (and no, fish-head is not a euphemism) on a perilously overcrowded ferry in the Indian ocean, can seriously be expected to walk around looking like cross between Daphne from Scooby Doo and Tintin (think Tintin’s flick with Daphne’s volume).
No, I say. That’s not going to work.
Did you hear that?
The sentence started with a NO.
Rewind ten years and this would have been unimaginable. Rewind ten years and I’d have made a mortified shrunken nod of the head, slipped off my gown, paid up and slinked off as fast as was humanly possible. I’d have rushed home, showered, styled it MY WAY and then fumed about the waste of money because my fringe was still level with my chin. Then I’d have gotten out the nail clippers and finished it off myself. And I KNOW you’re reading this at home, laughing, because you’ve done exactly the same yourself.
In fact I probably don’t even have to go back that far. Five years and I’d still be silently acquiescing. Still flinching at the too hot water or biting my tongue in pain at that brush.
Too hot! I state now – LOUD AND CLEAR.
Ouch! I make no bones about it. My bones are 55 years old, getting frailer, I absolutely have to spare them.
And this is the secret superpower of middle age. (Part 1)
No. That’s not going to work.
No. I don’t want to do that.
No. I don’t want to go there.
No. No. No. Learning to say it loud and clear.
The ceiling of the salon didn’t fall in. The hair driers weren’t all switched off in a coordinated display of righteous anger. No-one turned to stare in astonishment to witness my audacity.
Danny, somewhat muted now, simply spun the chair through 90 degrees and set about snipping away the flick and reshaping my fringe into a length more suited to my age and lifestyle, and less likely to work in the kind of black and white highly stylised photograph he perhaps thought he was framing.
A slick of fudge/gel - whatever it is they’re calling it these days - and I was on my way. He didn’t even take the time to try and sell me a shampoo for £765.
Was it something I said, I wonder?
I have more to say on this. Too much, for a five minute read, so I’m going to split this topic into two, and my next post will explore another equally powerful aspect of this terrific new superpower I seem to have acquired.
Until next time,
Cary
P.S. If you’ve enjoyed this read, please do share with friends and family, sisters and mothers, in FB groups and from the rooftops. Otherwise It’s just me, whistling in the wind.
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Oh I love this. Just turning 50 myself and, funnily enough, just editing a post about the word 'No' too!! You could not pay me enough to go back to my people-pleasing youth 😀
I had my hair coloured a few weeks ago and I saw a distinct line where the new colour met the old - even with my shitty eyesight without glasses on . The owner of the salon said “if it still bothers you in a week then we’ll redo next week”…. I have found another salon with another colorist