I’m pretty sure my mom would have taken me for a quick haircut had I just asked. That would have been the smart thing to do but not the right thing for me at the time.  It would have been me in a chair, legs swinging freely, listening to my mom and the stylist chat innocently about how to cut my life-less, flimsy, strawberry blonde hair.  For sure they would have concocted a ‘do’ that did not embody me. While I was feeling more Farrah Fawcett, they would be seeing more Dorothy Hamill. Hello?  Right here in the chair? Eleven year old me? Getting a haircut on the up-and-up, with my mom, would have robbed me of the thrill of sneaking behind closed doors with scissors stowed away; erect, sharp and jammed down the back of my pants so no one would suspect what I was about to do.  Just a wee trim. A snip here, a snip there and all would be perfect! I was sure of it. No one knows my hair better than me. No one knows what looks good on me better than I do. I had been in salons to observe the art of a haircut a thousand times. Okay maybe 20 times. Hold the piece, steady your hand, align the gleaming blades, fingers wide, slice!  So I did it. Myself. Like a razor sharp paper cutter through a thin crisp piece of virgin paper. Snip. Like swift hot blades through butter, I was done. The joy and sense of independence was thrilling, like driving for the first time, or turning the key in my new apartment. Watching the wisps of hair fall to the ground released from me a little gasp and a ‘whoa’.  After a quick peek at my reflection in the mirror, the exalted rush was quickly replaced by a feeling of unease, possibly embarrassment, but mostly shock. Ooooops. Straight out of the Dumb and Dumber style guide. Honestly, the most profound beauty experience ever.

This makeover misstep was more than lopsided locks on picture day.  It was the opening buzzer in a lifelong game I would play with myself; the emotional pursuit of trying to match my outside to my insides.  Not a trivial pursuit in the least.

Cutting my own bangs was an expression of the independent spirit that ruled me at the time.  My inner sparkle was as intense and wild as a jack russell puppy on caffeine and cocaine biscuits.  The “I know what is best for me” vigor that was percolating deep down needed somewhere to spill over.  Taking an active role in controlling my appearance was just the right exit point for this energy and the right place to express myself, letting the world know who I was and what stage of evolution I was at.   That was 11. This is now, which is greater than 11. I’m swimming around in my forties and much to my surprise, nothing has changed. My bathing suit is a little bigger now but I still want control, independence and to look in the mirror and see reflected back at me the woman I know I am inside.

Yes, it’s my birthday month and I am overly reflective.

From that first exploit with the scissors, it was a slippery slope into all sorts of makeover mishaps and fashion fiasco's. The most recent? I accidentally shaved off half an eyebrow in the shower when one of the Housewives of New Jersey said shaving her face is what kept her skin looking so young.  Alarm bells should have sounded at the “New Jersey” part but I was far too curious about the possible results.  The motive for taking control of how I look has evolved over the years from just wanting to exert control, to wanting what I cannot have; that celebrity style, to the stage I find myself in right now, a much deeper struggle and almost spiritual pursuit - emotional alignment.

The fact of the matter is, I don’t feel the way I look.  The mirror is not seeing me the way I see myself. And so, I play around a bit.

I still wear a bikini, begrudgingly pay the zillions of dollars it costs to put questionable highlights in my hair and I love to rock a super cool pair of sunglasses not always considered 'age appropriate'.  I’m writing this at my desk right now while wearing cut-off jean shorts. Most days I wear cover up to mask the bags under my eyes that scream of a restless sleep from an extra glass of red wine at bedtime and I have a drawer full of skin care products, most of which I’m not 100% sure what they do.  If there is a chance they will work, there is an even greater chance I will buy it. And you can bet your house I have a whole lot of workout wear too, some well worn, some untouched. One of my favourite sweaters is a lightweight fuchsia v-neck top from a Zara kids sale rack. It sure looks like I have a problem with my age.  I assure you, I don’t.

I often hear of women who say they have embraced their age and feel better than ever.  They stop colouring their hair, wear longer skirts and slimming one piece bathing suits.  They may even avoid bright colours as “those colours are for little girls and cupcake frosting”.  I say ‘eat cake and wear it too!’.

Should I feel lesser-than because I still want to look more like my old self? Or should I say, my former self?

I would argue that it is not youth I am chasing.  I simply aim to achieve symmetry; an accurate reflection, a true representation of how I feel and who I am on the inside draped across my physical self like a banner at the opening gates to a music festival where the songs of my soul play.  Cher may want to ‘turn back time’ but I do not. I DO feel better than ever. More in control, funnier, smarter, just as curious, silly, and yes, a whole lot wiser and more complete. All of this spirit is still dying to get out, just like when I was 11.  I want to communicate to the world how I feel - which is the same as my 11 yr old self, my 25 yr old self, and even my 35 yr old self but with the added accessory of self-awareness, worn like a tiara at a tea party. Better than a bracelet or eyelashes. When I go to some lengths to care for my appearance, such as highlighting my hair it’s because when I look in the mirror, I’m still hoping to have a little fun with myself.  Exchange a wink. Curls and hoops, lipstick and sunglasses, whatever my mood, my zest has not waned yet, so why should my skin tone? It is my spirit I wish to honor.

That might mean a bright orange shift dress or a plain old white t-shirt and gypsy skirt.  Cardigans still find their way into my wardrobe, as do longer shorts, but they are not in charge - yet.

I can’t lie and pretend I don’t feel some horror when I see the wrinkles on my neck, or the sag in my cheeks but please know, there are no wrinkles or sagging on my inner self.   Maybe an extra layer or two of potency and strength bubbling below the surface that grows with each year passing. This growth just seems to present differently on the outside and that’s what I find so strange to see.  

Style is style.  Grace is grace. Happy is happy.  As long as I work from the inside out and not the outside in, I will remain steadfast in my dye-it and daily regime of make-believe. There will be a day when I twirl in front of the mirror with my sassy silver hair and sensible slacks, but in the meantime, I’d like to have fun in my ripped jeans, blond hair and rose gold bangle. Don’t judge me and assume I cling to youth as the ideal.  Just accept the fact that perhaps I don’t know what my age has to do with my hem line or the colour of my pedicure.

One day, very soon probably, I will reject the sight of me in a bikini. I will have to laugh it off and curse at my new one-piece suit like a drunken sailor screaming into his empty glass after being told the kegger is depleted. Time’s up.  Cover up. That’s fine.

I’ve cut my own hair, and sadly still do from time to time, pierced my own ears, dabbled in the odd home perm, coloured my hair, shaved bits, and sewn or cut up clothes to mimic what was hot on the runway at the time;  as a suburban kid, the runway to me was the exodus of tarty, emo-looking high school girls parading off the school bus in their bizarro mall drag while stolen cigarettes fell out of their weirdly tiny purses.  My view and influences have been known to be narrow at times, not always looking to Milan or Paris for inspiration, like the ‘jorts’ I loved so much when I lived in Taiwan. It was a local thing. Or maybe it was just a ‘me’ thing? Who knew John Cena would pick up the trend so many years later.

I played with my appearance in my youth, and I continue to do it now.  I accept that as part of who I am. Why was it acceptable to play with my image when I was young but wrong now?  

In my mind I am no older than 26.  At the age of 26 I was at the end of a long stretch of travel and self-discovery; teaching English abroad and backpacking at will.  I only needed as much money as would get me on that next plane. My hair could dry on the beach without styling products and be tousled and fab.  I wasn’t afraid of the sun, I ate and drank whatever I felt like and had no problems sleeping. I’m quite sure I never got up in the night to pee, unless I went to bed drunk.  In which case, I still don’t remember getting up in the night to pee, because I was drunk. I smiled freely and wore patterned flowing wraps and tank tops. I’d really only ever been in a bank to pick up travelers cheques, that was a thing back then, and exchange money. I had a Bachelor’s degree but was between school and career and felt content with that. I was returning to Canada and had no monthly financial responsibilities.  I could run 10km or walk and swim for days, the only side effect being rosy cheeks and lean muscles. I’d never bought a vitamin before and it never crossed my mind that too much dairy might give me gas. I felt optimistic and while I didn’t know what the future held for me, I was looking forward to it nonetheless.   26 - what a year!

More importantly though, when I looked in the mirror at that age, what I saw seemed right - it aligned. A sun kissed face, curious eyes, a smart-ass grin, slender arms, wild hair, and a charged inability to sit still because there was so much to do and not enough time to do it in. That was the face I was showing the world and it was radiating from the inside out like a lamp light shining onto the street from the window of a distant house. My glow was getting out there!  

What’s different now?  

Even though life gets real occasionally and the drama of living has changed me over the years, it hasn't popped all my bubbles. I still feel like I am at the end of some epic journey of self-discovery, maybe even the beginning. I still save my pennies for plane tickets, I just have to pay for more people now. I allow my hair to dry on the beach naturally, it just so happens it looks a bit wiry and ends up under a hat now.  Ok, so I get up in the night to pee regularly, drunk or not. I still wear tank tops and funny enough - I find myself between careers again. I’ve been completely forced into having monthly financial responsibilities but I have decided I enjoy regular access to shelter and so can’t begrudge society for my money literacy.  I don’t run anymore but I love walking and hot yoga. And the whole dairy thing - well, cows are just different now; that’s what causes the bloat I’m sure. So 26 to now - I feel quite the same. I feel spirited and new. I feel constantly on the edge of giggling or hot and emotional, ready to launch into philosophical debate like a cerebral freshman on the first day of class.  

Without question, I am more beautiful on the inside now.  I still want to see that exuberance and spirit on the outside. For whatever reason, my appearance needs assistance to reflect who I am and it always has.

Feminists will be beating down my door and burning bras on my front lawn after reading this, blaming me for perpetuating the fixation on femininity and youth.  But to them, and I am one of you, I say ‘this has nothing to do with youth’. This is between me, myself, the mirror, and sometimes, a pair of scissors.

By Carol Sloan

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