MY mother hates it. My sister worries about it. My agent thinks I'm hiding behind it. A concerned friend suggests that it undermines my professional credibility. But in the middle of my life, I'm happy with it. Which is saying a lot about anything happening to my 55-year-old body.
I feel great about my hair.
I have long hair. I'm not talking about long enough to brush gently on my shoulder - when I tilt my head. I'm not talking about being a couple of weeks late to the hairdresser. I'm talking long. Long enough for a ponytail with swing to it. Long enough to sit against when I'm in a chair. Long enough to have to lift it up out of the sweater I'm pulling over my head. Long enough to braid.
What's worse (to my critics) is that my hair is graying. Of course it is. Everyone's hair is graying. But some of us aren't ready to go there. That's fine with me - I'm not judgmental about dyes. In fact, I find the range and variety of synthetic hair color to be an impressive testament to our unending chemical creativity. I'm particularly fascinated by that streaky kaleidoscopic thing some blondes do that looks kind of like Hair of Fawn. For my own head, I'm a tad paranoid about smelly, itchy potions.
No one seems to have any problems when a woman of a certain age cuts her hair off. It is considered the appropriate thing to do, as if being shorn is a way of releasing oneself from the locks of the past. I can see the appeal, and have, at times in my life, gone that route. Some women want to wash the men (or jobs) right out of their hair. Others of us have to have at them with scissors. Again, I do not judge. Go right ahead, be a 60-year-old pixie.
So why do people judge middle-aged long hair so harshly? I've heard enough, by now, to catalog the multitudinous complaints into several broad categories.
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