The sooner you let them fly along with your freak flag the better. I’ve known married women who told me that they couldn’t wait to have grey hair to let it go spindly and wild, sticking out of a messy bun like a pottery teacher. Personally, I started getting grey hairs at 18. At that time I found it appropriate to start dying my hair to match the colors of my milieu; orange, pink, bleached blonde, green, blue, purple etc. I changed it frequently and took care of that ever imposing grey issue while declaring my personality for all the world to see. Or so I thought at the time. Who knew personality wasn’t derived out of a tub of Manic Panic? Who knew it was more about actions and expression of character? Well, eventually I did, but that’s a digression.
While living in NYC and working as an actor it was unacceptable to look anything but camera ready and early to mid 20′s so the wild colors left but the maintainance of greys remained. I paid top doller to have my hair dyed to match my natural color so that I could continue to audition for the role of the sassy brown-haired best friend to the gorgeous blonde ingenue. After leaving NYC and leaving a life as an actor I wasn’t really ready to let go of looking as close to mid (ahem) 20′s as I could. Lucky for me, hairdressers and L.M.T’s have long participated in the olde timey times tradition of bartering. So, for the first 2.5 years after leaving the 5boros I was able to maintain my natural brown hair color with limited expense which was glorious. Entering into step 2 of continuing education took me out of being a practicing L.M.T which meant suddenly (gasp!) I had to start paying for my hair care. This equates into me having to make the Duane Reed aisle 2 decision of “does this match my hair color?” while I pull down my locks to the box and attempt to obtain the perfect match. It’s always a bit off. Shocking, right? Like recently when I guessed way too dark and ended up with something akin to Superman’s blue/black coloring. Not a good look for an olive-skinned person, I just look sickly. And while it’s possible to meet that guy, that partner who loves your spirally, sharp grey hairs, it’s not a commonality in the dating pool. True, I dated a gentleman who once told me “don’t dye your hair on my account, the more grey hairs the sexier.” Shut up, right? Trust that I tried my best to nail his foot to the floor and hang my spinster shawl in the back of the closet, but the shawl always prevails. And while I don’t want to encourage any good Spinster to date, let alone fall in love, because I mean, come on, retirement does not really include job searching, I will say that having a love that is unattainable, a love that you feel got you, yet you can’t get, really ties off that last stitch.
Again, digression, back to grooming. Let me be clear, I’m not letting my eyebrows grow into an unruly Frida Kahlo primrose path, my chin hairs are not for the billy-goat gruff brigade. I keep a close watch. I shave my legs, my armpits, et al. I keep a well-groomed self for, um, well, myself. I feel at my best in those grooming parameters. And while I’m technically still on the fence of Grey Gardens, hemming and hawing over whether or not to commit fully to my Spinster locks because I wonder, if muumuus and large wooden jewelry will be inevitably next, I think it’s something I can embrace. It could almost be considered retro. Think of the scene in “It’s a Wonderful Life” when George goes to find Mary and she’s an old maid about to close up the library, her hair is spindly under her hat, tucked messily behind the stems of her glasses. We know just by looking at her as she furtively glances around for predators and clutches her purse certain that any man who would approach her must surely be a thief or criminal, that she is in fact one hell of a Spinster. I may not be there yet, inside the grey gardens, but it’s a goal of mine. Accept those greys. Today’s spinster is different from Mary Hatch (olde maide name), she is not afraid of the world, she is not afraid of herself. Today’s spinster is happy alone and digs on herself like a well made breakfast sandwich. She feels no need to cover the signs of her aging because upon true acceptance, it makes no difference how old and how single she is currently. Or how old she looks to her community. Maybe in six weeks when it’s time for me to make this decision again, I will find myself inside the garden gate.
