So I’m writing this book. You know, the one I’ve been writing for-ever. I’m also planning a bat mitzvah (fast approaching in 2 1/2 weeks!), and I’m teaching at night. So it probably isn’t the best time to decide to get serious about self-publishing, but it does follow my pattern of keeping myself buried in projects. As my husband pointed out a few years ago when I was complaining about being so busy and stress-y, “You like it like that.”
So instead of being all tired about it, I’m embracing the chaos that comes with being a linear thinker in the middle of four big projects (at least). I am thinking, “Look at all the stuff I’m getting done!” instead of my former, “OMG I have so much to do.” I am not skipping yoga. I am remembering to eat. I am taking my vitamins. My sourdough bread-baking is going well. In a moment of holy shit epiphany the other day, I realized I do yoga, bake artisan sourdough bread, and my hair is turning silver. I’m becoming the woman I always wanted to be.
I won’t lie. The hair is giving me a bit of pause. I’m not ready to be gray, even though my beautiful mother has been silver as long as I’ve known her, even though my gorgeous friend Jessica Topper rocks her salt and pepper locks, even though I stop women with great gray hair and tell them how amazing they look. (When I can do it and only seem slightly strange, that is.) I just…I can’t…and yet, I am. I don’t understand why I’m so conflicted about my hair. It’s HAIR. I’m not vain. I clean up well, but I spent most of my time peacefully au naturel. Sometimes I forget to look in the mirror before I leave the house to run errands.
I have to assume I’m afraid of taking the step from siren to matron. I don’t like it what that says about me or how it makes me feel, but I can’t deny it. Is this how the old-people-don’t-have-sex myth got started? Because of gray hair? Or, horror of all horrors, gray pubic hair? I don’t doubt my husband’s devotion to me, but I do fear he won’t find me as attractive if I continue down the silver path. His preference for my brown hair has been stated. So has his deep and abiding love and his respect for my choice. It’s my call…
This was supposed to be a post about the book and conflict avoidance. Right now I’m re-writing a scene where the heroine realizes the hero has done something pretty damn unforgivable to her. As written, her internal dialogue goes something like this, “I should be mad at him, but I’m just sad and sorry for him.”
No, girl. You should be mad at him. Really mad. Kick his ass mad. Or at least throw him out of your kitchen mad.
I have no idea what that has do do with my hair, but I’ll re-write the scene. Right after I call my mother.
Anybody out there have emotions on the subject? I know I’ve brought it up on Twitter before and gotten some great responses. This hair hesitation has been going on with me for a long time! As always, commenters will be entered into my seasonal/quarterly/solstice/equinox giveaway of a gift certificate to The Ripped Bodice. (International winner would have to make do with Amazon) 🙂