During this decade, the hair turns weird. Horror show weird.
First, the hair on your head begins to reflect your new found personality. Acting all wild and crazy and completely out of control. Running with scissors and jazz hands screamingly on edge. No brush, amount of gel or chainsaw will get it under control. Second, it begins to leave. Starts as a trickling; as if your head suddenly became a bad neighborhood and the real estate value plummeted. Third, it moves onto your body. You begin to sprout hairs in territories unheard of to man (well,, woman). Center of your neck, around the areola (yep) even in the booty crack. But it can be controlled. Removed. Noted. And Third, but definitely not least, it starts to turn grey. Silvery, pretty grey which is nice for a car or an appliance but not for a living human being. And with that comes this weird coarse wiry texture. One of these hairs is not like the others, no ma'am. These greys are like uninvited guests: acts out but cannot be brought under control. Will not mingle with others. Will not politely leave on their own so have to be forcefully removed.
Unfortunately, they did not start out invading my head. At first.
I discovered my very first grey in the center of my beautiful 'bush garden'. Yep. My vajayjay, my p-town, my pleasure box. Down There. Front and center. Wiry long little bastard. I was appalled/disgusted/shocked as hell. I stared at it for what seemed like hours. First, by using my make-up compact tilted at weird angles (Cirque du Soleil had nothing on me) and then just standing naked in my full length mirror. Son of a bitch. I could never have oral sex AGAIN. I could never have regular sex AGAIN. Did this mean I had an old p***y? Of course. I cried. And then I immediately yanked it out as viciously as I could (NOT recommended).
When I made my discovery, I told a few of my girlfriends in horrified hush tones. And they started laughing. And laughing. My freak-out-ness amused them to tears. At a friends intimate annual Christmas party, during a game of secret santa, I received a box called "The Betty". On the front there was a cartoon line drawing of a woman's waist, hips and thighs with a triangle dead center. "The Betty" was a natural, lye-free, vaginal hair dye. And it was a bright Orphan Annie red (color: 'Red 02'). Did I mention that my hair color is 'natural black' (Hair Lie no. 42)?
So, I used it. And it was much brighter than the box indicated. During our sexytime, my boyfriend, upon seeing it, actually produced a high pitch scream and scrambled to the other side of the bed. Clutching a sheet. Staring at me. "What the hell? Is that?". And then, with a little coaxing, he remembered. Lesson confirmed: Men will screw anything.
After the Betty wore off, I decided to try a henna. All natural, right? Ah, no. At least not for 'down there'. More like slow simmering warm embers on a constant basis type hell. Oooof. After that wore off, I decided to shave it off entirely. If you can't see it, it doesn't exist. Felt young like a newborn baby. Except, I forgot about the growing back part. The part where you begin to rub your private parts against anything within reach like an old dog scooching his butt across the floor. Desk edge, casually front facing a wall, standing in a crushingly crowded subway car pressed up against a mans' messenger bag: aaaaahhhhh. Waxing was not an option. I once did all of that screaming to remove one and fifty marched back in its' place. Plus, I just couldn't get that ripping sound out of my head. *shiver*
Look, it's one thing to have an errant grey hair on your chin. Pluck or pull. A grey eyelash. Pluck or pull or carefully dye. Even a grey eyebrow strand. Pluck or pull or thread. And grey hair on your head? You accept that. You expect that. And you handle that. There are entire salons dedicated to the restoration of your rich, natural color ("only She knows!"). There are gay hair dressers everywhere nodding in agreement when you say, "it's pretty, but, it ages me". There are slews of brightly lit drugstore aisles across the nation dedicated to the hiding of silver strands via color boxes 1 through 501. It is the worlds most obvious resistance movement. And I was ready, financially and spiritually.
But the 'pleasure box'? Damn. I mean, common sense (which was now cowering way way way back in the back of my head) dictates that you will grow grey wherever you grow hair. Fine. But there are no salons dedicated to that fight. No specialists who would tell you (much less look at you), " Ah, darling, do not worry. We can restore you to your natural bush color in no time. No one will ever know the difference". There are definitely not any brightly lit drugstore aisles of vajayjay specific color to assist in this war. And no, my gyn will not do hair.
Now, I simply keep it as low as it can go while acting like it doesn't exist at all. Can't shave anymore due to the wanted posters of me. The drapes upstairs are slightly different from the curtains below (jet black sheen' (Hair Lie no. 63) versus punk rock entity). I co-exist as two people: a still relevant hot mama hanging in the upstairs residence with a silvery fox keeping time downstairs.
And so far, we are all good neighbors.
xo,
Fourty(ish) and Fabulous
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