I dyed my hair pink.
I did this a few days after my pink spring coat arrived in the mail.
Honestly, it was a coincidence. Or perhaps subliminal?
Either way, it’s hard to ignore me on the street.
This in combination with my diet, I’ve been wondering exactly WHY I’m doing all of this, aside from feeling better.
As I sat in the chair at the salon, I looked around. All of the stylists were young and beautiful. Clad in black, most of them blondes, I realized that perhaps what I was chasing was youth.
An impossible, yet alluring feat.
I’m 39. 39 is not young. 39 is not old. 39 is…39. It’s one year shy of 40. It’s very MIDDLE AGE.
I’ve never cared that much about aging. It was just something that happened and it didn’t seem to have any direct impact on how I felt physically. I felt how I felt and that wasn’t a number.
But now it’s getting harder to ignore time passing. I’m slowing down. I ache more. I’ve jumped on the night cream bandwagon.
And I feel that I’m becoming less and less relevant.
That loss of relevancy comes with power in some ways. It means that the changes I make and the reason I do what I do is for ME. Finally. I’m wearing this outfit because *I* like it. I have pink hair because *I* wanted to try something new. I’m trying to lose weight so that *I* look at myself and feel good.
I don’t need validation. Sure, I love cheers and support, high fives and compliments. But in the end, what everyone else thinks is fading into the background after a lifetime of trying to impress some imaginary group of people.
This is aging. It’s also settling down. Having a kid. Thinking about stability and even the future.
This is aging FOR ME.