To Age…or Not to Age?

To age or not to age…that is the question…

I was busy scrubbing down the art room at the end of a busy day, when my principal walked in for a chat. In the course of discussing various things (mostly relating to work), I made the idle comment that I needed to get my hair trimmed. “Have you always worn it long?” she asked. “No,” I replied. “It just grows. I’ve had it short several times; I don’t like the way it clings around my face.”

“It would make you look younger,” she said.

Younger. Well, maybe. I guess it might. But…would I need to color it? I made a conscious decision about 20 years ago NOT to deal with coloring my hair. In the days of my youth, it was a deep chestnut brown. If I dyed this mess my original color, at the rate it grows I’d be touching up roots daily. I think I have better things to do with my life. Not getting any younger here, you know-the remaining time needs to be well-spent.

Besides, would I really look younger? I don’t have a lot of wrinkles because I was very slim-skinny, even-when I was younger. But I do have a sagging jaw line and a bit of a double chin. Would cutting my hair disguise this? I think I would have to don an old-fashioned wimple to hide those changes! Perhaps I might look younger from behind-I’ve seen a number of women who seemed fairly youthful till they turned around and I got a good look at their faces. Some of them didn’t even need to turn around-sagging skin at elbow and knee advertised their true age, in spite of the careful coloring of their hair.

On top of that, do I want to look younger? I’ve put in a nice long 56 years getting to where I am. I have three grandchildren, and three step-grandchildren. In order to seem younger, I think I might have to deny their existence-or at least lie about their ages. The oldest one is thirteen. (How did that happen? Just yesterday she was a bitty girl playing with seashells in front of my TV, 2while her next cousin was just a cuddly bundle of blankets over my shoulder.) I’m rather fond of the sprats; I don’t think I want to trade them in for fewer years.

If I could look younger, would it put jumping cushions back in my knees? Would it make the ankle I injured when I was about my granddaughter’s age stop swelling at the end of a long day? Losing about thirty pounds or 10 pant sizes wouldn’t hurt a thing-but that’s a matter of better health, not of becoming younger. I might be able to tone my muscles up a bit…that’s just a few weekends out raking the yard and what-not. I’ll be doing that anyway-along with mopping floors, shelving books at my second job, and a variety of other tasks that never seem to end.

I’d love to have a little more energy, to have the figure I had twenty years ago. But I’m not sure I want to go back and relive those years; to suffer again the passions, the sorrows, the terrors of coming to terms with who I am. It would be nice not to see my grandmother looking at me from my mirror in the mornings-it makes me wonder what I forgot or how late I may be-the old matriarch ruled with a fist of iron. No one argued with gra’ma.

There are a lot of things on my list to do before death lays his claim upon me. I’d like to learn to play guitar well enough that others want to listen. (I do ok for small children and myself, but those old enough to be musically discerning tend to wince.) I’d like to publish a book and get paid for it. (I’ve written two manuscripts, and I’m working on two more). I’d like a fool-proof way to keep from forgetting appointments or becoming tongue-tied when addressed by someone in authority. I want to see my grandchildren graduate from college; I want to see my youngest son settled down. I’d like to find someone to whom I would be special for the rest of my life.

But none of those things really involve being younger, or looking younger. Oh…what am I going to do with this mop of hair? Well, the stuff has gone almost completely white, and it is getting pretty long. Most likely, when it is just a little bit longer, I will make an appointment to get it cut correctly to donate the part I don’t want to Locks of Love, the folks that make the wigs for cancer patients.

Or maybe I’ll just let the stuff grow till I take the scissors to it myself and make up a batch of hair lockets or something. I’ll work out something with the beautician or my daughter so that I can keep it out of my face, my paintings and my keyboard. But whatever I do, I’ll still be the age that I am-and a good thing, too! I’ve worked hard getting to where I am; if some of it isn’t so wonderful, well…the journey was half the fun.