This post should start with a story about hair-dye. Then again maybe it should start with something about death.
But death talk is hardly original and, chronologically speaking, the part about the hair-dye comes last.
So let’s talk first about age.
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In two months, I will be thirty one.
This time last year I was coming to terms with the inevitability that on a certain day in December I would fall over the line of being thirty. I could cast off the twenties. After all, don’t most people say that, when looking back, that your twenties are, mostly, horrible? True, mine started off with an eating disorder, then dipped further in the middle when I had that slight emotional breakdown (which I haven’t yet discussed), but then it came back up again with the arrival of the kids, Surprise! and another thing or two so if I could just keep up that trajectory my thirties could be off the charts!
Right?
I told myself that this year I would put my mind to planning what I wanted to achieve in my thirties, for wouldn’t it be best to do this in the flush hope of its infancy? The decade was before me whether I liked it or not so wouldn’t it be best if I tackled it with a sense of optimism?!
I would do this, oh, yes, I would. It was doable. I would be the healthiest, most career- focused, well-sexed, well-spoken, thirty-something you could ever hope to meet.
I would be an inspiration; Oprah would be calling me to become a new self-help guru on her show.
And then dad died.
Since then, I’ve not done much. I’ve become lazy; I take the car places I’d normally walk to. I overuse the preheat setting on my electric blanket. Sometimes I turn it on in the middle of the day. I hop between the sheets to wait and hope that the climbing temperature soothes whatever happens to be off in my spirit. Then Riley comes in and asks, “Mum, why are you in bed? It’s day time.”
“I’m just having a rest.”
“Get up mum.”
“In a minute.”
“Get up!”
Then I look at him and realise that a three year old boy has trouble reconciling bed as a place of retreat rather than rest. His solace, his safety, is still me. I have to find my own. Often it’s in a horizontal position.
This is when I feel old, when I think of the guitar that’s gone unplayed, and every social outing or writing event has had the feel of a heavily handled affair about it (well – on top of what it can often already feel like when you’re juggling kids) and, I admit, the thought of catching up with my friends and writing peers has often been the only times that’s gotten me out of the house when I’d rather stay home, with my electric blanket and television.
This is where the hair dye comes in.
This photo was taken on Friday night. On Saturday morning I had an appointment at the hairdressers to touch up my colour and as usual it didn’t take evenly and there were patches of shades across my scalp – but that wasn’t the reason I walked home, sobbing.
No, my usual colour is “Ash Blonde” and when they washed it out, this time it was all ‘ash’ and no ‘blonde’ and I admit I had tears in my eyes when I looked at myself and saw possibly my future self. Me, with grey hair.
The other ladies in the salon looked at me sideways, hiding their faces behind the magazines they pretended to read, as the colourists fluttered around me trying to think of a solution (I made my displeasure pretty plain). I’ve been told to come back in to do another re-touch for free to fix it up, but I think I’ll leave it.
I’m tempted to get a pair of scissors and cut it all off myself.
Anything to forget the fact that, as I am, even at just thirty, I am more than half the age dad was when he died.
And I find that frightening.
