I’m A Feminist, So Why Won’t I Let Myself Age Naturally?

Women with blonde hair flying in the wind
Photo by Ayo Ogunseinde on Unsplash

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.

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.

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.



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