I’m A Feminist, So Why Won’t I Let Myself Age Naturally?
I’ve reached an age where I’m no longer expected to meet the ridiculous beauty standards set for women, which makes the Olympic speed with which I sprinted to the hairdressers at the end of our latest lockdown even more shameful.
It confirmed my status as a bad feminist.
I realise that ageism has a lot to answer for - proven by a recent study by Australian Seniors that demonstrated the drastic lengths middle-aged women and men are prepared to go to remain visible, relevant, and employable — from hair colouring to plastic surgery — but when the only person I see on a daily basis is my dog, that’s not really an excuse.
I’m lucky, apart from basic body hygiene, I don’t have to maintain any particular beauty standards for my job, and neither would I call myself high maintenance when it comes to my appearance.
That may be why I transitioned so smoothly into living like a slob during the restrictions. The truth is, I’d be lying if I said that the permission to live in lounge wear day and night and grow out an extra layer of insulation on my legs, wasn’t a dream come true.
However, it was a different story when it came to the hair on my head, and like many middle-aged women, I went through the seven stages of grief as the visible signs of my age crept through my parting.
I rallied. Hats, good lighting, and scarves helped, although, there was one distinct low point when I reached the Mare Sheehan stage of rootage and tried to smudge my roots with mascara — which I don’t recommend. And eventually, I forgot about the ever-widening salt and pepper line down the centre of my scalp.
And interestingly, the closer we got to the magical seventy percent vaccination rate required for salons to reopen, I began to seriously toy with the idea of ageing naturally — inspired by Andie MacDowell in Maid, who, frankly, could shave her head and still look fabulous. Which makes my midnight vigil outside my hairdressers the night before freedom day all the more perplexing. Because, as a feminist, it goes against every follicle on my body to surrender to the gender inequality in beauty standards. And each time I agree to pay through the nose to colour my hair, I know I am surrendering to the narrative that youth trumps…well…pretty much everything.
So why do I do it? Why don’t I give up on this last bastion of my youth?
Because it’s not like I enjoy the hairdressing experience. I despise being forced to sit still and stare at myself for two hours, all the while pretending to understand the exorbitant cost of foils and the special shampoos and treatments required to maintain my hair in some vaguely manageable condition.
It is highly stressful, and not even the kindness of my lovely Millennial hairdresser - who has quietly accepted my refusal to talk to her — makes it any better. Furthermore, I’m still not convinced our unspoken rule around engagement has made our two hours together more honest or more awkward.
I can’t chit-chat confidently about the mundanities of life with a woman whose biggest daily conflict is the straightness of her hair
I realise that other women my age can chit-chat confidently about Netflix shows and their next holiday, but I’ve tried and I can’t do it. I cannot pretend to have anything in common with a twenty-something who goes out for the night around the same time I head to bed. Perhaps, if she had something interesting to say about vaginal atrophy or grumpy, middle-aged husbands, we might have something to work with, but I cannot feign enthusiasm for Tik Tok or Love Island at this stage of my life.
And this visit, my hell was ramped up a notch by the rehabilitation my hair required after four months in the wilderness. Sea water turns it into a tangled, untameable frizz, which meant I set another world record for the time I spent at the sink with a junior who could neither control the temperature of the water or stop yapping.
Evidently, she hadn’t read the memo about my verbal reticence, so while I spent most of the thirty minutes worrying about whether she had removed the top layer of my scalp, the cost of the toner (ka-ching!) and some other special treatment I needed… apparently (ka-ching, ka-ching!), she talked me through her guide to the best crop tops and thigh-length boots. Hence, by the time we reached the only part of the hairdressing experience I enjoy — the head massage — I couldn’t get out of my chair fast enough.
The sad truth is, I can’t control what happens to my face, but I can still control the colour of my hair
Obviously, I could buy a whole new wardrobe of lounge wear with that extra $200+, but the sad truth is I like being blonde and I’m not yet grown up enough to come out as an old person. Perhaps, if I was a good feminist, I would feel more proud of this ageing body of mine and what it has achieved, but as I left the house for my appointment and my husband told me how much he love my new, natural hair colour, I suspected his comment came from the family spreadsheet rather than any real desire for me to look like his mother.