Mirror, Mirror

The Mirror speaks—How could I not love this face?  Changeable as it is, aged as it has become, I still find beauty in the shifts and quirks of the emotions that ripple across its surface. Hers is the face that fills my world and, in those moments when she rages against the erosion of years on her skin, I hold each wrinkle and spot as sacred signs of a life well-lived. I love this face as if it were my own, for in truth, it is. And it is truth that I reflect, but what I offer as a gift and testament to all she is, she receives as an admonition and cries out against the unfairness of a verdict that she cannot appeal. Time plays havoc with us all. Even my smooth and silvered surface, laid down in perfection all those decades ago, has pocked and peeled leaving coppery islands and inky streams. If I could speak to her beyond those words the enchantment allows, I would share my admiration and remind her that the face she sees is the face she has earned.  Inspired by Little Snow White by the Brothers Grimm.

“I’m done.” In the mirror our eyes locked in reflected gazes; mine resolute, hers quizzical and maybe a touch concerned. “I’m just done.”

Decisions are never easy for me. I had flirted with this one for months and though my angst might seem like the fretting of a woman loath to release her hold on something that, in reality, had slipped from her grasp long ago; the truth of the matter is I am lost in that no-person’s land of an aging woman in a youth-centric culture. The familiar signposts and landmarks that guided me through my younger years no longer seem relevant and the map I’ve chosen to follow doesn’t match the cultural landscape.

Perhaps my children should worry. If I decide to go gray in a world that insists I need to look as young as I can for as long as I can, what does my decision say about me? Is this the first plodding step along the slippery slope to the valley of despair. After the golden highlights have faded and the low lights are no more, will I tumble into despondency and cease to bathe? Or could this hard earned decision be a declaration—a shot across the bow of a social standard that denies the beauty of anyone who has passed their middle years? In my heart, to Deny the Dye has become my manifesto.

My hairdresser was not happy. My visits, which used to be characterized by long comfortable chats and shared intimations, became strained. Now we came together as strangers, instead of acquaintances of many years. I suspect the chill behind her forced smile said as much about her own approaching dye or not to dye moment as the impact of my decision on her bottom line. In her eyes glinted the fear of time and the relentless passing of days. In my naiveté I had hoped she would guide me along a gracefully graying path, but her terse denial, “there is no way to go gray gracefully” turned out to be a personal rejection as well as a professional philosophy. Today I am glad to say, she was wrong.

So far the changes have been subtle. My scalp has become a loom weaving silver and platinum threads among the browns of my birthright. And you may think me mad, but I love it. I find myself rejoicing in my new, natural roots. There is something primal about the brindle colors of salt and pepper and cinnamon. My hair is no longer a coif, but a mane. No longer something to be lacquered into submission, but a creature to release into its natural state. With a growing understanding that encompasses more than my tresses, I realize I’ve spent my life chained to someone else’s idea of what I should look like. For me, it’s time to break those chains.

By the end of my marriage, I had learn to approach the mirror with trepidation.  Like the queen in Snow White, I cringed at my reflection and lashed out at the damage done by time and circumstance. I hated my face and its features and I started searching for ways to recapture the person I was before the destructive years took their toll. Somewhere, I believed, there had to be a spell or a potion, a dye or a cream, that would return me to me. But the victories were few and fleeting and my hair still grew gray and my jawline still sagged. Finally, one morning as I listed the faults revealed in my reflection, I literally said, Stop.  And I asked myself this question, if this face belonged to a stranger, what would I think? Would I be repulsed?  Would I see the lines and wrinkles as excuses to turn away? To be angry? To believe this face wasn’t worthy of my compassion? Or would I see a face who has survived and still smiles; who has suffered and still goes on? Would the kind eyes and laugh lines mark this countenance as someone I would offer a grin and a nod of my head?  In asking those questions, I found my face was worthy and fine and even beautiful in its way.  In forgetting myself, I was able to find my-self in the mirror once again.

Women and, with increasing frequency, men step up to the looking glass with an eagle eye for the flaws and faults. Our culture tells us we are never good enough. If your nose is slightly crooked or your eyebrows are too furry or, heaven, forbid, you have gray hair, you have to do something and do it right away! But this is not the experience I want for myself, or my handsome sons and my beautiful daughters-in-law.  It is not the experience I want for your beautiful daughters and sons. And, it is certainly not what I want for our grandchildren.

This summer my granddaughter danced on the beach the day she turned four.  She burst into song when it suited her fancy and made silly faces without blushing.  But already at four, the culture is starting to shape her self image.  In preschool the children talk about what things may be liked; which classmates may be played with; who will or will not get invited to parties and play dates. Soon it will be what clothes measure up and who is too tall, short, dark, or fair and I have no clue how to change the conversation. But maybe by letting my hair go gray and my jawline sag, I express my joy in who I am. After all, the story of Snow White is not so much about the princess’s beauty as the queen’s rage. So here is my selfie with my hair going gray and its natural waves and cowlicks untamed.  And I know that not everyone will think I’ve made a wise choice, but that’s okay.  For one thing I’ve learned is that if someone doesn’t like the way I look, it says very little about me, but it speaks volumes about them.

So love your face.  And for those of you who’ve spent distressing moments in front of the the mirror lately, here is some love and some Michael Bublé.