It's hairy being younger than people think

By Minx McCloud

My self-esteem took a bit of a beating this past weekend, and I have to admit that I'm still stinging a bit from the experience.

For the longest time now, I've resisted my hairdresser's efforts to get me to darken my hair and get rid of the gray. I'm 51 years old, and I like salt-and-pepper hair. No, really, I do. You have to have confidence that there is a certain beauty in aging.

Or, perhaps I simply dislike the idea of fooling around with my hair, which I have never done in my entire life, even when I was in high school and the other kids did all kinds of things with their hair. I watched my friends tease, rat, braid, cornrow, bleach and iron their hair, and never did I give in. I pictured a future in which they were all bald and I had a head of luxurious, albeit snow-white hair.

Remember that girls' gym teacher you had in high school -- the one everyone thought was a guy until one day when she wore a skirt to the school board meeting? You know, the one who slapped you on the butt if you didn't climb the ropes fast enough? Think her. I look like her.

So once again, I resisted my hairdresser's pleas to "just try it once. If you don't like it, you can let it grow out."

"Just cut it," I said good-naturedly. "But go a bit shorter this month so I don't have to come back here for at least six weeks."

And cut it shorter she did. I now resemble a fat jolly-faced pumpkin with a thatch of black-gray hair on my head. Wisps of sideburns peek out past my ears, but they are so short that when I try to put my glasses on, they stick out like cowlicks. My neck is bare except for ugly stubble and I can't see in the mirror to shave it. When I tried, I just couldn't negotiate the razor in the mirror and almost ended up with a blood transfusion. Very nice.

Remember that girls' gym teacher you had in high school -- the one everyone thought was a guy until one day when she wore a skirt to the school board meeting? You know, the one who slapped you on the butt if you didn't climb the ropes fast enough? Think her. I look like her.

That night, I wailed to Jim about how terrible I looked. "How can you bear to even look at me?" I moaned pathetically.

He immediately (and ill-advisedly, I might add) tried to soothe me. "Don't worry, Hon," he said. "It will grow back."

I can almost see the women rolling their eyes and the more sensitive men among you saying, "Oy, what an idiot!" In all fairness, he thought he was saying the right thing, so I didn't hit him with a skillet.

It was with reluctance, though, that I accompanied him on a shopping trip Saturday. His mission -- to buy new shoes. Why was I there? Because when we first met, he didn't know how to dress, pure and simple. I took him from long-haired hippie to corporate business caliber, and we even braved the waters of business casual together. (Anyone want to buy 52 used neckties?) Now, although he is an accomplished shopper, he likes me to go with him, which I find very flattering.

These days, my sole purpose is to find the shoes he is looking for when he has given up in frustration. He has middle-age blindness and if it doesn't jump out at him from the shelf, he assumes it's not there.

"There are no Rockport dress shoes," he announced in frustration, surveying the shelves at one of those shoe superstores. He wandered off dejectedly to check out another brand.

"Can I be of assistance?" a voice inquired

I told him what we were looking for and he led me to a different section of the aisle where Jim had neglected to look. My husband is a man who will work on a computer problem at his job until 4:30 in the morning, but if he doesn't find the shoes he's looking for in 20 nanoseconds, he throws up his hands in despair over the capriciousness of the fates.

This salesman was really eager to please ... much too eager. Although Jim immediately found the shoes he wanted (once he was guided to the right section), this fellow started bringing us boxes and boxes of other shoes. It was like that scene in "Fantasia" where the out-of-control brooms keep bringing Mickey Mouse buckets of water.

And then he made his fatal error.

"Let me show you and your mother just one more pair of shoes," he said.

"Mother!" I gasped. "I'm his wife."

The salesman's embarrassment was acute. I thought he was going to pass out. For the rest of the time, I called Jim "Sonny," with a slightly hysterical edge to my voice. The salesman retreated in shock at his faux pas. I pitied him, but I hated him just the same. Jim is only four years younger than me and, although handsome in my eyes, he's no Adonis. I must look really, really bad, I thought miserably.

"Should I put all these boxes of shoes back?" Jim asked me.

"Hell, no" I said. "He thought I was your mother! Let him put them away!"

"It could have been worse," Jim said philosophically. "Look what happened to me. A really pretty lady asked me if I was a shoe salesman."

What can I say? I gave him a kiss on the cheek and an A for effort.

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