Rose's Cantina

Yesterday, I celebrated my birthday on a patio with my son, Stefan, and his girlfriend. I was incognito with sunglasses and a Globe and Mail baseball cap. Normally, I would have put some effort into my appearance, but the pandemic has stripped me of my vanity, and I am left hiding in plain sight. All the makeup in the world doesn't matter when you have pandemic hair. For years, I coloured my own hair until what my former hairdresser used to call "the nasty blondes" took over my pate. There is literally no way I can hide the undergrowth of steel strands which have taken over like dandelions in a perfectly manicured yard. So I became a devotee of professional hairstyling sucking it up a couple times a year for a full colour and lights, and another couple of times for attention to my roots. But the pandemic robbed most of us of this option. So we were left to our own devices to try to manage our colour until the doors of the salons opened once again. Thankfully, ...

I watched Barbara Walters' interview with Hilary Clinton last week. The burning question: what's with the hair? WTF? The woman is Secretary of State, responsible for ending wars and preventing atrocities and all Babs can ask her is about her hair? Well, she does have a point. I've been obsessing about Hil's hair for quite some time now. I'm obsessing about her hair because I've been obsessing about my own. At 56, my hair was too long. I looked like a sad folk singer still trapped in the 60s with a greying mop of unruly strands flying everywhere. I did get it cut last year but the whole experience left me traumatized. I kept insisting that the woman shorten it up, she kept insisting I looked brilliant with long tresses cut at all angles. She lied. The long layers made me look even more ridiculous. Like Hillary Clinton. An old sad bag with a satchel full of elastics and scrunchies. And my wallet was 50 bucks lighter. So I've stayed away from hai...

There is one thing that's good about growing old as a woman. If you are fair-skinned and fine-haired, you can virtually stop shaving. I shave my legs once or twice a season and I'm good to go. I don't even own a razor most of the time. I never have to worry about waxing or plucking, either. Even my eyebrows. While I admit to being envious of beauties with thick luxurious hair, I now can take pleasure in the fact that these ravens have to spend hours on self-care. And when they get older, well, all I can say is "woof". Thank you, God, for this magical gift. I have not appreciated it before, but I'm loving it now. Hair salute the rest of you.