Beauty At 35.
I had my hair blown out for an event the other day.
I asked for it sleek, straight, no flips or flaps, just a good old fashioned pin-straight blow out.
The lovely girl worked on it tirelessly, making every strand look shinier than ever, falling to the ground in a soft whisper, framing my face like an actual frame, all 90 degree angles of brilliant, deep brunette.
I thanked her, paid her, tipped her, and walked out to my car where I promptly took all of her hard work and tossed it up into a low bun.
A lock of hair fell out from the elastic’s grasp on one side, a clump of strands sat haphazardly on top. The strength of the hair tie slowly put a kink right smack in the middle of all her effort.
The sleek, straight look I have spent most of my past 35 years coveting suddenly felt so formal, so forced, so unnatural to me that it had to go. Before I could even put the car in drive.
I have battled my thick, wavy hair forever. And here I was, with the means to finally tame it, and feeling anything but free.
I am 35 now.
I have thick, wavy hair. I have a few sprouting greys around the edges. I have hips that aren’t going anywhere. I have eye brows that do need taming. I have a bump in my nose and a sun spot planted firmly in the center of my left cheek and a set of abs that hasn’t seen the light of day in many days…though we are working on that.
I also have long, elegant fingers. I have whisper thin wrists and ankles that add grace to almost any movement. I have (fairly) clear skin that requires minimal effort to shine. I have a newfound love for red lipstick that I happen to think suits me quite well. I have thick, wavy hair that looks really pretty tied back in a simple, messy, haphazard bun. Framing my face from a variety of angles, smiling at life rather than whispering at it.
I am 35 now.
And it’s never felt more beautiful. In a haphazard way.