FFS. I’ve burnt my scalp. With a peroxide mix of chemicals designed to dye my almost black hair auburn. I’m now a funky pie-bald orange/dark brown and burnt scalp.
Thing is – I am just so frustratingly restless.
I signed up for another Masters degree; I’m dieting (a first for me – though I’ve so far shed 10lbs); I’ve stopped smoking (ok, a 19th attempt for me) and I’m actually exercising (if you count a quick 30 mins jaunt around the river most nights).
Is this my mid-life crisis?
My Meg triggered whatever this is. She said – in response to hearing I was joining her at University (only part-time, mind): For fuck sake Mum. You’ve had your time. You’re too old for this. You’re finishing – not starting.
Admittedly she retracted it all when she saw the look on my face. But I think the youthfully careless damage was done. The final veil between me and being an oldie was torn down and trampled on. I’ve been staring being over the hill straight in the eye ever since.
Sometimes our adult child just make us feel like an irrelevance. An anachronism. A coffin-dodger on the slippery slope to oblivion…
And yet… and yet – more than one pal tells me it’s a liberation – being freed from the tyranny of ‘caring about appearance’ and ‘striving to be more than you are’. One has ditched the dye and gone silver white; has eaten and drunk her body weight in chocolate and good wine – and embraced elastic-waisted lycra pants and tent-like tunics with joy. Another threw out the make-up; has become welded to her Birkenstocks (a vice I understand) and attracts alarmed stares by going barefoot even on the coldest, wettest days – an antidote to her hot flushes, she says.
Should I….? Will I….?
But no. No. NO.
I am not going gentle into that good night.
Megan: your Ma isn’t finished yet 😉