I like to think I am one of those women who will go gently into the good old folks home. That I would embrace aging and feel comfortable with every single line that creases my face.
WRONG!
Well, actually, I was doing quite well with being 37, until I got my hair cut a few weeks ago. I was feeling pretty virtuous, having decided with my oldest to lop off our locks and donate them. But cutting mine would mean ending up with a bob, hairstyle I haven't worn since, well, grad school (or shortly thereafter). But hey, it's for a good cause, it's summer, change is good, blah blah blah, so why not.
The stylist assigned me was gorgeous and, it has to be said, young. As in in her early-twenties-and-she-can-get-away-with-skipping-the-moisturizer young. I should've known trouble lay ahead when she seemed bored by my angsting over the actual cut as I explained how many inches I needed to donate. (I guess wisdom doesn't come with age.)
After my explanation, this is what she could muster: "It's fine. Older women look better with short hair, anyway." It was stealth, that line, made even worse by her nonchalance and total lack of awareness. I said nothing. Not even when she repeated it again while she was admiring her handiwork. I forked over my $50 for the cut and walked home feeling vaguely insulted. And I had been!
I realize she's probably calling it as she sees it, but still. I'm 37, for f-ing sake. Not 77. And even then, does she really have to be so rude? To be honest, though, what she said stung. For days. It still smarts.
Still, I wouldn't trade my late-thirties for her twenties. I was so insecure, so unsure, so uncomfortable in my own skin, so, well, young. Who'd want to go back to that? In the meantime, I'm on the hunt for a red hat (which doesn't go and doesn't suit me). And a new stylist.
—CityMom
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