I do not intend to grow old gracefully. I am not happy about the process, but as the saying goes, “it beats the alternative. “My health has held up pretty well, in spite of assorted aches and pains which have no known cause and for which apparently there is no known cure. My doctor’s favorite explanation for these is, “Well, as we get to a certain age…”. I hate that phrase.
I feel comfortable in my own skin, even though there is too much of it, and it seems to be packing its bags and heading south. Isaac Newton was right about gravity.
My legs now have more lines than a road map of Kansas City.
My only concession to the reality that time marches on is that I have switched to black underwear as a symbol of mourning for my lost youth.
I am not really fond of the crow’s feet around my eyes, but I did see an advertisement by a carpet cleaning company which promised, “We will remove your wrinkles by restretching while we clean your living room and dining room for only $89.” This sounds like a darn good deal to me. A quicky at-home facelift AND a clean house for only $89. I hope they offer Scotchguard treatment afterward to prevent staining and liver spots.
One sign of the aging process that bothers me more than any other is my thinning gray hair. If my salt-and-pepper hair gets any “saltier” the Food and Drug Administration will slap a label on my forehead (which gets a little higher every year) that warns of excessive sodium content.
I am sorely tempted to shave my head. If Daymon Williams, Patrick Stewart, and Woody Harrelson can carry it off, maybe I can, too.
So far I have whittled my morning hair styling down to about 10 minutes, after which I never give it another thought. I resent even that 10 minutes that I can never get back.
Apparently, my 10-minute effort is quite a bit below the average for most women.
Creative hair braiding can take up to 9 hours and cost hundreds of dollars. I have been known to whack at mine with a pair of rusty kitchen shears because I am too cheap to pay a hairstylist. Nine hours! I can’t sit in a stylist’s chair for more than 15 minutes before I get as impatient and fidgety as a toddler on a sugar high.
My last two stylists not only quit, but they also went out of business. I try not to take it personally.
One article I read said that the average woman spends 43 minutes each day on her hair. If that is true, just think what we women could do with that 43 minutes. We could take over the world!
Shaving my head would fit perfectly with my old-lady goal, which is to be a crotchety eccentric.
I will never be one of those high-class elderly ladies who wear designer suits, spike heels, and full make-up everywhere I go. I won’t be spending my winters in a Florida condo. Neither will I drive around in a huge late-model Buick, from which I can barely see over the steering wheel, as I cruise down the expressway in the fast lane at 40 miles per hour with my blinker on.
No, I will play poker once a week and shop at Bob’s Big Bargain Barn. I want to wear sweatsuits and comfortable shoes. Every bra I own is going into the garbage can.
Once a week I’ll have my old lady friends over to play poker, drink beer, and listen to my old Elvis eight-tracks.
When neighbor kids throw balls into my yard I will refuse to give them back. At Halloween, I’ll give out apples instead of candy bars.
I will entertain my grandchildren by removing my dentures and playing them like castanets. Just thinking about it makes me want to light up a cigar and tell bawdy jokes. I can hardly wait!
To start things off in my quest to be an eccentric oddball of an old lady, I will now shave my head bald. Holding my buzzers aloft, I stood on a busy street corner and shouted, “Women of the world unite! Free yourself from the burden of hair care! Step right up, ladies! I’ll go first.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzz. Ah, slick as a whistle.
“Who’s next? Anybody? Anybody? Uh-oh. Does anybody have a wig I can borrow?”