Long Hair is a Flex?

Above is a photo of a woman with long, beautiful hair. It's not my hair. My hair is longer, darker, and greyer. It's also in better condition because I haven't dyed it. It's layered, and the longest layer touches my butt.

I'm 43 years old, and no one believes that I am 43 years old.

The other day, I was dressing up in an evening gown to do a skit for a charity fundraiser. I needed to look high-class, fashionable, and awesome. I got up that morning, had a shower, dried my hair, put my hair in two heatless curl sets, packed up my fancy clothes, and headed over to the event in some very comfortable clothes.

When I got there, I was helping in the kitchen for a few hours, so being dolled up for that would have been stupid. Imagine if I had lost a fake eyelash in the egg salad? I worked in the kitchen until I was sent off to get dolled up for my part in the event.

When I entered the bathroom, I took one look at my face and went, 'Ugh! You look 50." It was too late to call off my appearance. Even if I ended up looking totally ridiculous, I had to keep my promise and follow through. I told myself to trust the process and got to work on myself.

My undereye concealer did nothing.

My powder did nothing.

My false eyelashes were kind of uncomfortable and made me look like I'd been bumped up from old crone to Miss Piggy (she has always had great eyelashes).

Even when I put the jewels under my left eye, I still looked old and weird.

Finally, I was like, 'To Hell with this," and I pulled out my heatless curls.

That did it. I have fantastic hair, and the long curls were honestly so distracting, I no longer had crow's feet, or laugh lines, or puckers around my mouth, or anything. I looked like a perfect lady. Exactly what they wanted. Perfect.

People are suckers for long hair (even me, looking in a mirror).

I knew this. When I was in my early 20s, I chopped off all my hair, so that I looked like Harry Potter with lips and hips. It wasn't a good look on me. My head is the wrong shape. When my hair was that length, I had never been hit on less in my life. I was more likely to be hit on while walking a baby carriage than when my hair was short. Seriously, it was a tough lesson for me.

Some people can get away with a pixie cut.

I am not one of those people.

So, I didn't cut my hair when life got hectic. When other women my age were chopping off their luscious locks because they were tired of caring for hair that length, I leaned into it and braided my hair at night to keep the night sweats out of it. I had to. I look horrible with short hair. All my good looks are in my hair.

But long hair is confusing for people looking at me. Women my age are on the cusp of menopause, and we have no right whatsoever to look fertile.

I have been hit on by a teenage boy in the last calendar year. I was at a dance for teenagers. I was there as a chaperone. I wasn't in the gym.

"Hey! What's your name?"

I looked at him funny and told him my name. I was still unsure if the interaction was what I thought it was, but the teenage boy next to him knew I was an adult, that I was there as a mom. He covered his mouth to stop himself from laughing and took two steps back.

I smiled at the boy and said, "I'm here as a chaperone. Enjoy the dance." Then I got the heck out of there and joined a mass of adults.

Yeah, that's not awkward. But it's the hair, not my face.

A month ago, I was at a community event for fall, and I had this guy who was telling me how fascinating I am (a sure sign that he was getting the wrong idea about me). He said other things too, but I couldn't stop staring at his forehead. It was so smooth. My forehead was the first thing to go, so I wear bangs to cover it and move my eyebrows with ease. I also noticed his black hair and how he didn't have any grays in it. My husband has grays. They're at his temples like a '50s Spider-Man cartoon. This guy's forehead was as smooth as marble, and his hair was 100% black. I wanted to stop what he was saying to ask him his age. Eventually, I was saved by one of my adult children coming round and being like, "Yo, Mom."

When I was a teenager, all the girls used to pretend to be gay to get creepy guys to leave them alone. Some guy was hitting on one of them, so one of the others would come up and be like, "Hey, Honey! Are you having fun?" At least, that's what they said. It was a really long time ago, so... Anyway, it was a buzz kill for the dude trying to meet new girls. I gotta say, my way is more effective. Having adult children come over and be like, "Yo, Mom. I have an adult problem that I haven't adulted enough to solve. Can you help me?" is an amazing way to kill all the romance when someone is getting the wrong idea about me.

Anywho, I was reading an article the other day about how women have long hair to flex how well-cared for they are. If they have time to take care of long hair, they're rich. If they have beautiful, long hair, it's because they're wealthy enough to buy nutrient-rich foods. If they have long hair, it's a sign of youth and fertility... like having big red lips, having a dewy complexion (I do put on the rouge), and basically looking like what our culture deems as pretty.

Hmm... I thought it was because my skull is the wrong shape.

Yet, I have to admit to a weird sort of creepy feeling, like I swallowed a slug and it's wriggling down my esophagus, when my daughter is confused for my sister. Like if I weren't the jealous queen, I'd chop off my hair and let everyone see my weird head shape in order to let my daughter have her day in the sun instead of being a little attention thief.

Then my brain whips back to a moment a long time ago when I was in the Vice Principal's office with my daughter. She'd been pulling out her hair, and we were having a meeting about it. The Vice Principal told me that her daughter had the same problem and that if I were to cut off a hunk of my hair for my daughter to carry around with her, the problem would be solved.

I was SO pissed. Not because of the idea that I would have to chop off a hunk of my hair, but because that woman was sitting on the other side of the desk, insinuating that I wouldn't do everything for my child. I was exactly one heartbeat from asking the wretched woman to hand me a pair of scissors. I'd do it right then.

Before that heartbeat was finished, my daughter spoke up. She said, "No, that wouldn't help me." Then she explained why, and we left the office.

I remember being awash in conflicting emotions. I was angry, I was touched by my daughter's kindness, and I was weary from dealing with the school administration.

The thing that is most frustrating about looking younger than I am is that I am mistaken for a younger person. I am discredited on repeat. Sometimes, I just blurt, "I'm 43." I'm being talked down to by a woman my age who thinks she's a paragon of experience compared to me. Sometimes I'm talked down to by younger women. As illustrated above, I'm confused for being a minor. I'm being grouped with children by adults and children alike.

I am the poster child of why they say, "Women and children first", 'cause they can't tell the difference.

Sigh... The thing about adulthood is that there is no decision or situation that doesn't have a downswing. I could just as easily turn this on its head and talk about how I chopped off all my hair and suddenly all the pretty privilege was gone, but I was taken seriously. I was paying more at the mechanic, missing discounts, missing freebies, and missing people just treating me nicer all the time because I look like a pretty young thing. As I explained above, I already gave that a shot when I actually was a pretty young thing, and it sucked.

My apologies to my daughter, but contrary to what I just said, there is no decision or situation that doesn't have an upswing. I have two shoe racks in my closet that can each house 23 pairs of shoes comfortably, and she can borrow them whenever she wants. Pretty moms have awesome shoes.