the art of aging gracefully… or not..
“I’m pretty sure my eyebrows are migrating.”
Ok.. granted at almost 32 this is not a sentence I ever would’ve guessed I’d be saying. But there I was, mid-tweeze of the eyebrow, swearing that I never had hair that far up on my forehead before.
Naturally, my husband just walked by with a shake of his head, not realizing that I would pull him into this conversation as I snagged him and asked him if there were any remaining hairs that looked like they had been hopelessly wandering and simply got lost.
“What’s the big deal?” he asked, leaning in close and confirming I had plucked those last few eyebrow deserters. “We all know things change as we get older.”
Thankful that at least he had the sense to say “as we get older” and not “when you are old,” I shrugged my shoulders. Was it vanity? Perhaps a little. But only a little.. after all, I’ve been dealing with an alarmingly increasing number of grey hairs since before I was old enough to drink. I think it was more a label of laziness. Oh great, another thing I have to do in order to maintain my “appearance.” Dye my grays, track down deserting eyebrow hairs, buy wrinkle cream… so on and so forth.
It’s not easy to accept “aging” in a society like ours. A society that promotes face lifts, bigger busts, anti wrinkle injections. But I never thought I’d be worrying about all of that at my age.. or did I always kind of know that?
I can remember being a kid and thinking “Man, my parents are so old!” I guess that’s what I get for thinking that when in reality, they were only a few years older than I am now. I know that wrinkles happen, that hairs seem to desert their posts and that one day I’ll be searching my head for the one naturally colored hair in the bed of gray… but I always assumed that would be when.. well… I was actually old. You know.. like in my 60’s or 70’s. I’m pretty sure, however, should I actually reach that age, I won’t think of it as old. I’ll be thinking that when I was in my 30’s, I was young.. perhaps too young to really know anything about the way the world works. Nevertheless, with each new grey hair, I doubt my youth. And children don’t help either when you ask them if they think you’re old and they, without hesitation or breath, “Well, yes of course you are.”
At least I can point to my head and say “You see most of the grey hairs there? Well, you are responsible for those. That and the fact my eyebrows are running away.”