How to live with gray hair, 12 easy steps

To help out those late to the gray hair trend, I've prepared this list.

1. Start young.  If you start getting gray hair when you are young, you have a long time to get used to the idea that you are aging.  You have a jump start on other women.  By starting young, you can gradually get used to the idea that you will go gray, then you will die.  Facing this at 25 is easier than at 85.

2. Decide on what you will call your hair—gray, grey, white, silver.

3. Be frugal.  If you are frugal you will decide early on that you will be spending a small fortune over your lifetime if you start dying your hair. If you are gray young (see #1) then you are facing as many as 60 years of hair coloring.  This could start with “highlights” to blend in the gray, then progress to dying.  You will need to touch up your roots.  You will need to make decisions about changing colors.  And, if you ever decide to stop, you will need to deal with the growing out period.

4. Use purple shampoo. Always.

5. Be prepared for compliments.  Younger women (under 70) with gray hair will be stopped.  You may receive compliments when you are walking in the mall.  You may have men stop you on the street to comment on your hair.  You may have women roughly your age, standing behind you on the jetway, tap you on the shoulder and whisper, “I just have to tell you your hair is gorgeous.” You may have women interrupt your podcast listening on the commuter train to ask you about your hair.

6. Be prepared for being mistaken for your child’s grandmother (by adults).  If you are gray young (see #1) and have your children late, you may be mistaken for a grandmother. Shopping clerks may say, “Oh, how nice. Grandma has the baby today!”  They may ask, “How old is your grandson?”

7. Be prepared for being mistaken for your child’s grandmother (by children).  When you take your child to kindergarten, another child may say, “Are you Evan’s Grandma?”

8. Use purple conditioner. Always.

9. Enjoy the discomfort of clerks who try to decide whether or not to offer you a senior discount.  Watch them squirm—is it better to err on the side of offending by asking or not asking?

10. Be prepared for women to say, “I wish my gray hair looked like that.”  Truth is, most of them have NO IDEA what their gray hair looks like (see #3, re: coloring).

11. Learn to be assertive.  When you have gray hair and think it might be fun to have a pink streak and go to the beauty store looking for temporary color and the clerk shows you to the root touch up products rather than the fun-glo pink you are looking for, correct her.

12. Enjoy the benefit of young men (sometimes) offering you a seat on the L.

What I weigh

The first time it happened I was buying a Christmas tree. Standing in a rural Pennsylvania field, the farmer pulled off his work glove and extended his calloused hand, “I’ve never shaken hands with a professor before.”

The last time it happened was Friday.  Sitting in a meeting miles away from the office, I sent an encouraging email to a faculty member struggling to maintain control of a committee.  He replied, “Thanks, Chris. I needed that.”

How did my word, my mere presence, get this power?  I can impress and encourage, scold and rebuke.  But, I am nobody. I am not different or better or smarter.  I can’t sing very well, draw, or paint. I am terrible at remembering names. I always, always burn garlic toast in the broiler.

It did get me thinking about the weight we assign to things in our lives. The weight attached to words and actions.  I'm like everyone else, I imagine. I enjoy hearing words of praise from others and words of criticism can cut sharply. I put my trust in the experience and wisdom of physicians, realtors, and hair stylists. Realizing that others are trusting my experience and wisdom gives me pause. What I do and say matters to others, affects them either positively or negatively. My words have weight, which makes me think I need to weigh each one carefully. 

   

                                          

Christine Lagarde, Part II

When I wrote four years ago that I had a crush on Christine Lagarde (http://profhimes.blogspot.com/2011/07/christine-lagarde.html)  never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine I would meet her.

Yesterday I did. And, if possible, I am even more in love.

She was the commencement speaker this year for my university.  Her son was graduating and she was hear to celebrate him and to deliver an address.  The evening before commencement she attended a small dinner, honoring the honorary degree recipients and commencement speakers.  I was there.  Not because of her, but because luckily one of the honorary degree recipients this year had been nominated by my college.

After dinner I summoned the courage to go over and introduce myself.  I told her who I was and she said, "I love your hair."  I then joked that I had offered to fill in for her if she couldn't be here--both Christine's, same hair, nobody would notice.  We laughed.  I told her I had long admired her and her insights on women in leadership.  She said she would be including some remarks about that in her address, "After all," she said, "if not me, than who?" She mentioned that she had recently been on a panel with Janet Yellen and they had commented at the beginning that if they heard any statements about their hair and they were walking out.

I had someone snap a photo and I floated home.

Not that kind of woman...

I've found that there is a certain assumption made about me as a single woman in academia by other female academics...that I am a liberal feminist thinker.  I'm not. I'm a liberal. I'm a feminist. I'm a thinker.  But not all those things put together.  I don't want to spend my evenings discussing  patriarchy and oppression. I'm not well-versed in the theories of feminist thought. I believe everyone's work should be valued and I understand that has not always been the case. I am grateful for women who were willing to stand up for their rights and I will fight for mine.  But, I'm not interested in talking about it endlessly with other women. I'm not interested in identifying all the ways I've been slighted or diminished or made invisible. I have my stories, from time to time I share them, but I also believe that there are many men who truly would be more understanding and thoughtful if they didn't feel every move they made or word they said was being judged and weighed.  

About my hair, more or less...

I got my hair cut this weekend. 

It has only been in recent years that I began to experience that unique relationship between stylist and client.  I'm not a naturally effusive or talkative person, so it's not as if I've shared any deep secrets or thoughts.  Yet, my ambivalence and insecurity about my hair (my being?) has seemed evident to each of them. 

I started getting grey (gray? silver? white?) hair in my late 20's.  The idea of coloring my hair for the next 60 years or so was not appealing.  I have vivid memories of my mother's home dyes--the smell, the dripping, the weird results.  I decided then that I wouldn't start. There are things I like about my hair, and I'm often randomly complimented on its color and appearance.  I've been stopped on the street, in stores, and at work by people wanting to comment on my hair.  Just two weeks ago, boarding a plane in DC, a woman standing behind me leaned forward to whisper, "Excuse me, but I have to tell you your hair is stunning." 

Stylists love to play with my hair. They all encourage me to be freer with it, loosen up a little.  For me, though, there seem to be only two states--controlled or out of control. I spent my childhood and teen years hating my hair, unable to find a way to deal with it.  It curled just enough to be annoying, not enough to be cute. I wanted "cheerleader hair,"  long, straight, and blond.  I had "nerd hair,"  short, curly, and brown. I find it hard to let those hard feelings and resentment go.  

I often think of my growing up as a time of wanting some undefined "more"--more challenge, more stimulation, more something. I'm beginning to believe that maybe part of getting more is trying less, letting go.  

I did surprise her yesterday by saying I've always wanted to put a pink streak in my hair.....

Lunch

I'm putting a lunch break back into my life. 

In my first job after college everyone in the office took lunch.  Some people went home, some went to a fast food place, many ate their bagged lunches and reheated leftovers in the small break room in the basement.  On nice days you could sit outside at picnic tables.  The owner of the company, Millie, was an advocate of the two martini lunch.  I thought it was normal to come back from lunch with her a bit tipsy. 

In my second job, lunch hour continued.  Every few weeks a group of us would go to a wildly popular Mexican restaurant.  We would plan these excursions for days when we could get there at opening to avoid the long lines.  On Fridays we went to a bar for burgers and beer.  Many days we ate in our break room, talked, and read the newspapers. 

In graduate school I often met my husband for lunch. He worked near campus and we would select from the many food trucks lining the streets. Other days I would gather with the faculty eating lunch in the courtyard and listen to their academic gossip.

When did my lunch hour disappear?  In my first academic job many of us would eat lunch together in the conference room, similar to my graduate school experience.  But gradually, over time, that practice ended.  By the time I reached Syracuse, shared lunch hours were rare.  Some people went out, some ate in, there were occasional excursions down the hill, impromptu gatherings at the workroom table, but for the most part "lunch hour" was gone.

It has been a long time since I regularly took a lunch break. I would eat at my desk, sometimes trolling the internet, working a crossword, or reading a newspaper, but I still felt like I was at work.  It wasn't really because I was so overextended that I didn't have time for lunch, if I took all the time I goofed off the rest of the day I could easily afford 30-50 minutes for lunch.

I'm putting a lunch break back into my life. For the last few weeks I've eaten lunch in my office, but not at my desk. I've brought in a book to read over lunch and really divorce myself from work for 40 minutes or so.  In nicer weather I hope to be able to go out for a short walk.  I think it has made me more productive, happier, and better able to focus.  I think it is worth it. 

Sitting in Starbucks on Sunday

 

One of my favorite new routines is to go to Starbucks on Sunday morning.  As with any good routine, there it varies little:  Grande Earl Grey tea, blueberry scone (unwarmed), and Sunday Chicago Tribune paper.  I steep my tea then settle in to a reasonably comfy armchair for a leisurely read of the paper, perhaps topped off by a little pleasure reading and some emailing.  I like the idea that I'm surrounded by people, yet under no obligation to interact with any of them.  There is a constant buzz of activity, a sound level that is reassuring but not annoying.

Who else comes to Starbucks on Sunday mornings?  Turns out it is quite a popular place.  Like me, I've noticed some regulars.  There is a gregarious middle aged man who seems to know everyone in the cafe.  From eavesdropping on his conversations I've learned he is single, an atheist, involved in social services, and fancies himself as a bit of a personal counselor or coach.  From week to week I've heard him engaged in serious religious conversations, offer advice on a relationship break up, charm mothers and children, and assist the elderly.  He will talk to anyone, even me.

There is often a couple who seem to be on a first date. I imagine them having met on Match.com and choosing Starbucks as a neutral meeting site. They stand out because of the hair flipping and overly eager smiles of the women and posed easiness of the men.  It is clear both parties are trying to impress.  If these physical observations weren't enough, the snippets of conversation I hear are a dead giveaway.  Clearly "getting to know you" talk--where do you work, how long have lived here, what did you do yesterday...romance blooms over a latte.

At the opposite end of the spectrum is the arguing couple, or last week, what I took to be the arguing adult daughter and father.  Looking across the room I noticed a young man and woman, sitting side by side, staring straight ahead and clearly tense.  At first I assumed the were fighting with each other, but when an intervening table cleared, I saw the older man on the other side of the table talking. At one point the young woman replied. Without hearing a word she said, her anger was clear.  Her husband (I presume) sat quietly, looking at some middle place in the distance.  There to support, but not to participate.  When I glanced over later, they were all gone.  Not, I'm guessing, to the same house.

There is usually a table reserved by a professional...life insurance? time shares? financial advisor?  I've only seen men in this role. They take a table and over a few hours see two or three couples.  Who knows what they are selling...

There are dads with kids, moms with kids, moms and dads and kids.  Funny, though the age range seems to top off at about age 6 or 7.  Then there is a gap to college age.  I guess older kids aren't up and about on Sunday mornings, or their parents are escaping to Starbucks without them.  There are occasional groups of women, chatting about their holiday vacations, children, recipes, and clothes. I have yet to see a similar group of men....

I'm not the only single person. Lots of young folks with laptops and textbooks, a few older gentlemen with books or what look like school papers to grade. Interestingly, I have not seen another single woman of my age in the place.  Does that make me a pioneer?  A woman brave enough to face the wilds of Starbucks unaccompanied?  What could possibly go wrong? So far I haven't had to fend off the unwelcome advances of hordes of gray haired men. I think I'm safe.