The Hairdressers mirror

What is it about the hairdresser’s mirror that always makes me feel like my grandmother is staring back at me? Surely that isn’t me? The wrinkles that need polyfiller and copious amounts of primer, foundation, contouring and blusher just to pass as something not too hideous.

The whisker—which I’m sure wasn’t there a few days ago—peeks out just under my jawline. I try to pinch it discreetly, but my fingers refuse to get a firm enough grip to pull it out. I’ll have to deal with that when I get home, or it’s going to haunt me.

Quickly, I write a memo on my phone because I just know that after three hours in this chair, my brain won’t remember. I want to sink deeper into the seat—or better yet, give up this whole malarkey of trying to look good before THE DATE.

My heart sinks a little more. A date. The first in over four years. A blind date of sorts. A modern date. Met online, as this is apparently the way things are done now.

To be honest, I’m filled with dread. What if I make a fool of myself? Talk too much? Wear the wrong outfit? I haven’t dated anyone in over thirty years. I never thought I would need to. But then, I never thought the woman down the road would make a play for my husband—and that he would actually act on it.

Of course, it didn’t last long. Much to my almost-amusement.

He tried coming back, blaming a midlife crisis and boredom, before attacking me on a personal level when I didn’t respond enthusiastically. I’d let myself go. Got old before my time. Didn’t I know that 58-year-olds were meant to look like they were still in their 40s these days?

Bit rich, coming from him—with his paunch overhanging his trousers, hair in need of a good trim, as were his eyebrows, nose and ears. Don’t get me started on the clothes: too tight, wrong colours, and more suited to someone in their 20s.

I won’t lie. I was heartbroken when it first happened. I cried all the time, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. Though, as it turned out, that last part proved useful. The remaining seven pounds that had stubbornly refused to shift for years—well, since the menopause—finally disappeared.

As my nan used to say, always look for a silver lining. That was mine.

Strangely enough, after a couple of weeks, it all stopped. My best friend Lyn remarked, rather ruefully, that I’d cried longer over the dog dying than I had over Geoff.

Hair foiled up, magazines handed over, coffee in front of me—I wait for the miracle of multi-coloured highlights to take effect and blend away the grey.

I flick through the magazines. Article after article on how to look good, dressed or otherwise. Scarves to hide a turkey neck. Flattering cuts to highlight the good bits and cover the bad. Instruments of torture—also known as shapewear—to give you sleek lines and enhanced cleavage for those of us who no longer have pert breasts.

Ageing isn’t for sissies, I decide. Greying hair, wrinkles, brain fog, failing hearing and eyesight—and the horror of catching yourself saying things your mother used to say, the very things you swore you never would.

But I have to be honest—the one ageing thing nobody talks about, the one I’m still slightly traumatised by, is what happens if THE DATE goes well. If it leads to other dates… and then, you know what.

What the hell do you do with the grey down there?

A quick tidy-up every now and then, without my glasses, had been sufficient during the marriage years. Last night was the first time I’d attempted the procedure with glasses. Not an easy task these days.

Memo to self: start yoga or Pilates.

What to do? Shave the lot off? I’m not convinced that, at my age and having had three children, that’s a great look. A heavy trim, turn down the lights, and hope the ambient lighting doesn’t cause anything to glint like a diamond in a coal mine?

A Brazilian is absolutely out of the question. It would resemble a zebra crossing—especially if I added a couple of vajazzles either side. Which would either break the ice… or end me completely.

Life really shouldn’t be this stressful. I understand that people want to look good, but the pressure is insane.

I’m not buying into it anymore.

I put the magazines down and pick up my phone to text my daughter.

Hi Sweetie,

Just to say that I love who and what you are—especially on those days when your hair is wild, you’re in your favourite sweatpants and oversized T-shirt, and you’re frazzled and make-up free.

I know it bothers you that you don’t show up at the school gate perfectly dressed, made up, and gliding along like a serene swan. But remember—under the water, swans are paddling furiously. Nothing is ever quite as it seems.

You are beautiful, honest, kind and caring. That is what matters most. I have seen, with my own eyes, the radiance that shines from within you as you watch your children and enjoy your life. That kind of beauty can’t be bought—or created by plastic surgery.

Keep being you. Remember, the most beautifully wrapped present isn’t always the best.

I love you.
Mum

P.S. Be warned—you go grey everywhere.