Susan Senator

According to a recent issue of Vogue, it’s time for me to cut my hair. Apparently, your mid-forties is the witching hour – when ladies with hair past their collarbones turn into witches, or harpies, or something far worse: ridiculous and laughable. The same rule applies for short skirts. Even if your legs are “good,” it is not recommended. Except in some extreme cases, of course – I suppose they mean if you are Cyd Charise or Betty Grable – and then, only with thick tights so that no one thinks you are serious.

I’m not sure I have the energy to fight for my right to wear a miniskirt at 44; but I damned well resent anyone telling me I will have to cut my hair soon. I don’t do it as I really like the way it looks. It seems like women are always being told the clock is ticking in one way or another: the biological clock, the find-a-husband clock. And now, the long hair clock. Even if we were to declare a kind of Daylight Savings Time on middle aged women with long hair, I’m not sure it would buy me enough time.

I am attached to my hair as it is: long. I have had this sort of hair my entire life. My hair is naturally curly/frizzy, mid-back length, mostly brown, depending on the stage of my highlight grow-out. I have not always loved my hair the way I do now, however. When I was a kid, I wanted long straight hair, parted in the middle, with blue-black shines in it like Veronica Lodge. I knew nothing about Product, relaxant, pomade, wax, or any other goo that could make this happen. A blowout was something bad that happened to tires. So as a child I would go to sleep with my hair wet, pulled into a ponytail and then pinned flat against my head, so that in the morning I had mostly straight hair, albeit with one horizontal crease going all the way across. But at least it looked stretched out and long, and straight(ish).

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In my thirties, I, along with every other fashionista at my kids’ playground discovered the blowout, a clever and relatively simple process that would give us the hair of our dreams – or at least, like Jennifer Aniston. Now even we ethnic types could give that little insouciant flip of the head and our hair would actually move. I became addicted to blowouts, chemically induced shine, and flat, middle parts. Never mind that Ned would squint at me and ask, “Who are you?” openly longing for the messy-haired girl he fell in love with at Penn. “Me, only better,” I could have answered, but I was too annoyed. That was my story, however, and I was sticking with it.

Now, in my forties, the style has changed and so have I. Long, loose waves are in, and that is much easier for me to fake than stick-straight hair. Along with the loosening up of hair I have found a more relaxed me. I lost twenty pounds, fairly easily, but healthily. I wrote a book. I found the courage to take a belly dance class. I feel like I’m closer than ever to figuring out what it takes to make me happy, and I know it does not come in a $40 bottle of shine serum. The irony is, that once I hit my forties, I had more confidence and peace-of-mind than any other time in my life; but at the same time, I found myself bombarded with society’s messages that I was no longer good enough. I am exhorted to Botox my fine lines, excise the not-so-fine ones, reduce this, plump up that. And cut my hair. If I don’t, I risk being inappropriate, or even ridiculous. Shudder.

So here I go, braving ridiculous. But as a lifelong member of fashionable society, I think maybe I’m owed a little slack. I paid my dues with years of square-toe, then pointy-toe, then round-toe shoes. Skinny leggings, wide-legged pants. Back to skinny leggings. Cowl neck, then mock turtleneck. I think I have earned the right to continue to wear my hair long way past 45 and be considered beautiful.

At least, that’s my story, and I’m sticking with it.

Dad’s Response:
Dear Susan-
So much noise about hair
Always it never ends
Hair too long
Hair too short
The musical Hair
Suspended from school for hair
Now it’s time to cut hair
You’re too old for long hair

Who sez all this
Budinskies
Fuddydudd
Experts from Vogue
Probably bald
Who crave power
And hate women
People of should
Who wish they could
Knownothings

Don’t cut your hair
Straight or curly
It’s you
Even with pony tails
Your hair tells your story
Whatever it is
You may color
It rainbow
But don’t cut…

Love,
Dad