Tag Archives: Beauty

Maintenance

As I notice what takes up my time, I weigh whether or not it is a worthwhile pursuit. Ticking off things on my “to do” list should be a priority over time-wasters. I’d have to say that, in addition to “home maintenance,” “self maintenance” is certainly an occasional necessity. I’ve never been a high-maintenance babe. I went through a phase back in the ’80s of getting my nails and hair done, but it didn’t last long. I don’t wear layers of makeup (unless I’m really getting into drag) and in general don’t go for a whole lot of the “upkeep” most women do. I used to EpiLady but ever since my little hair-ripper-outer crapped out, decades ago, I haven’t really dealt with the hair on my legs. (There isn’t much of it left, thanks to so many follicles being, uh, ripped out.) After my first three-month stint in the desert, I abandoned shaving my armpit hair as well. (Sorry if that’s TMI.) And I’ve always been a big fan of “’70s bush,” refusing to engage in any pubic primping. (Again, apologies about the TMI.) I don’t exfoliate or luxuriate or otherwise pamper myself much. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t spend a whole lot of time on my physical upkeep, beyond working out and (occasionally) showering. But today I took an hour out of my (not at all) busy day to dye my hair. Dicie gave me a big box of assorted red-head gels and chemicals; I chose the darkest in keeping with the season. And I am thrilled with the result! My last dye job came out a bit too dull — color-wise, not lack of luster! This new shade is definitely red! Looking at old photos over the holidays made me notice that my hair color had gotten a bit boring so now I’m back to bold!
Day 3: January 13
1. 20 minutes of meditating
2. 90 minutes of working out.
3. Some blogging…and an hour of proofreading my erotica collection book.
4. Again, managed to restrict myself to only HALF of my “TV Diet!”
5. Brought up and unpacked another box of books, did some shuffling of stuff.
6. Socializing: 4 hours of hanging out and suffering through some seriously horrible theater.
7. Personal upkeep: 1 hour of hair dying.

Abby of a Certain Age

On Saturday, someone referred to me as “grandma.” Not in a “Hey Grandma!” mean-spirited sort of way but in a situation with my niece, as in “Her grandma is over there.” Sigh. Do I really look like a grandma? I certainly know I’m old enough to be one; if I’d had a kid when I was 25 and they had a kid when they were 25, my grandchild would be 2. GAAAAAHHHH!

I feel as though I’ve crossed some sort of rubicon. It’s been a very slow process, as aging is, I suppose. One day you’re 12. Then your 22. And all of a sudden you’re 52. Wha’happened? I’ve always believed women only have a few somewhat amorphous ages: kid, teenager, vaguely no longer living at home but not quite yet a woman, a woman, a woman of a certain age and old lady. I am officially a woman of a certain age, a euphemism for old broad, which I prefer. It’s used for women who are no longer “young” but aren’t quite bent over and ancient. Yet.

I’ve been worried about becoming invisible, being the woman too old to matter, no longer turning heads,, inspiring whistles or receiving admiring glances. I’ve watched these invisible women as people talk over them, bump into them and generally disregard them. I don’t want to be that. Thank heavens I still have “a nice rack,” as my friend Austin puts it, that at least gets me some attention.

Regardless of how much of an old broad I am, I’m still not ready to date an old man. I see fat, balding, totally objectionable dudes with surprisingly pretty women, women who, are, um, similar to me…in age, looks, lack of enormous middle sections and stringy grey hair and orthopedic shoes and…well, you get the picture. This one guy in particular, who I will assume is suuuuper impressed with himself, caused me concern. He was on his way to Figment in his stylin’ kilt. He had all his hair. And a belly the size of Santa’s. But his lady friend was tan and trim and attractive, with auburn hair and a fashionable outfit. I could tell by the way he was conducting himself that he thought he was a real catch. I mean, look at all that hair! Who cares if he has an extra 50 pounds folded over the waistband of his stylin’ kilt? The thought of fucking that guy made me gag. I’d rather not fuck anyone. Which may, actually, wind up being the case!

I’m gonna go dye my hair…