When I was about 30 years old, I had Rogue’s hair from X-men.  Literally, my hair looked very similar to the shot below.  It was a dark brownish red with a blonde streak down the front.  I wore it like that for a my comedy debut on television.  I had a dying-my-hair fetish for quite some time.  I’ve had blonde hair and the red with the stripe number and my natural, dark brown, and often black.  But, this Rogue style made me look ultra-cool.

 

It was almost exactly like this…

 

I know it was ultra-cool because I was walking the streets of Seattle (not like a ho, like a person philosophizing) and a 15 year old boy stopped me and said, “Cool hair!”  He meant it.  He had a huge grin on his face.  It was like the best hair he’d seen all day.  I was 30 and he was 15 and I thought, “Yep, man, I’ve still got it.”

 

 

I’d have my hair like that to this day, if it weren’t for the upkeep.  I mean dying your hair like that is a MAJOR part-time job because the minute the roots grow into the blonde streak you go from ultra-cool to meth addict.  The look changes so fast that if you’re not vigilant, you’ll go from ultra-cool to not getting a table at a restaurant because the manager thinks you’re going to steal the silverware.

 

If I wanted to class and sophisticado the look up, I’d do it ala Stacy London.

 

Look at that, one, cool, gray, streak of hair, perfectly displayed right in the middle.  Now, either Stacy London is a genetic mutant and that streak grows perfectly right the feck there OR she pays a lot of money for the look.

 

 

Stacy and I are about the same age and I worry.  I worry about not knowing who in the hell the up and coming music artists are.  I worry about not knowing how to use an app when everyone under 25 thinks it is soooo easy.  I worry about losing my cool factor.  And to understand my cool factor, I’d call myself a cool-nerd.  Both, in equal parts.

 

But, then I have other days where I go, “Nope, I can do this.  I can grow old and not lose my cool.”  Certain things get in the way like not having a good hairdresser.  When you don’t and you’re of your late 30s, a bad haircutter can turn you into an instant soccer mom, so can bad jeans, comfortable shoes, and tight capris.  It’s a feckin’ minefield.  Us trying-to-keep-our-mojo broads must navigate it daily.

 

For example, maybe you had a rockin’ hot body in your 20s, but now you’ve decide to enjoy things like…food.  That’s all fine.  You just can’t wear that 20 year old’s workout gear or the result is this…

I’m gonna say no.

 

You have to be more conscious about covering your bits.  The tight skirt / tight shirt combo is out, if you can’t handle a northeasterly wind with a bucket full of grace…

Sometimes we mainly hurt ourselves.

 

And as a final PSA…Lose the corset tops and the tennis visor if it makes you look like your last job was stealing the welfare check from a retired couple, while you split their timeshare in Atlantic City.  That description is not a job and this is not an outfit:

Why, God, why?

 

It’s not that I think all the fun has to go out of your life and your wardrobe as you age.  It doesn’t.  You just have to adjust.  But, hell, if you’re 80 and still have a rockin’ body that can work the sh*t out of a skinny jean.  FECKIN’ DO IT.  Exhibit A:

Come on! There is a whole lot of awesome happening here…

 

Lastly, sometimes I think it’s an energy thing.  (What the feck?  This is the second post where I’ve mentioned “energy.”  California is turning my vag into a hippie crystal most often found in a Wicca shop…Anyway…)  You have to keep the youngishness about you.  At least that’s my current theory.

 

 

What else could explain the exchange I had with 3, young, adorably, cute, Latino boys at the grocery store the other day.  It went something like this:

 

Scene:  I’m at the checkout line and the boys have my groceries bagged and scanned before I can even get them out of the cart, it seems, so I say…

 

Sweet Mother:  Jesus, you guys are quick.  I can barely keep up.  (Yep, I’m an idiot.)

 

One of the Latino boys says something very low, almost a whisper, and they all start laughing.

 

“What?” I say.  “I missed that one.”

 

And the one bagging the groceries guy says, “Miss, he said, Miguel is known for finishing quickly.”

 

Me:  “Whaaaaattttttt??????  Oh, my god.  That is awesome and so NOT G-rated.  You gotta keep it G-rated.  Well, not for me, but you know, for the kidsies.”  I’m laughing at this point.

 

The one who dropped the joke bomb runs off to the end of the aisle.

 

“Well, where is he going?” I say.  “You can’t drop a good one like that and run off.”

 

At this point, I was distracted and enjoying myself.  So, the cashier kid says, “Miss, would you like any cash back?”  Because you see, I’ve forgotten to finish my transaction, so I say…

 

“It seems we’re all having trouble finishing today…”

 

Which sends the 3 boys into fits of laughter.  And I go, “Oh, lord, we’re all blushing now.”

 

And the boy bagging groceries says, “Miss, I won’t tell, if you won’t.”

 

And that was it.  I felt like I did back when I had the streak in my hair, walking the streets of Seattle.  I’ve sorta still got it.  Either that, or they just felt like including the soccer mom because she looks cray-cray.  Feck it, I’m taking it how I want to.  I’ve still got it.  Thank God for the little things.

 

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Photo creds:  tightjoggers, cartoon-feature, oldskinnyjeans, skirt-muffin, disasterduo, rogue, london

 

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