Thirty four years of marriage.
What does that say about me?
That I am old?!
Admittedly my memory is patchy but occasionally clear images surface. I recall my mother’s thirtieth birthday (or it may have been her fortieth…).
Etched in my memory are my mother’s disappointment, dread and depression: the end of the world as she knew it had arrived!
On the other hand, I remember Mr Hickey, my “one moment to retirement English teacher”, in my senior year of high school. Mr Hickey smoked like a chimney: all withered, wrinkled and shriveled up was he.
One day during class, he loudly declared that he would not trade places with us (and return to the age of eighteen) not even for all of the treasures of the world!
What a strange thing to say…
This week we celebrated our thirty fourth wedding anniversary. Just the day before I read a blog about the former Maskit designer store chain. Maskit was known for its upscale Israeli ethnic design and quality. Maskit was home to a magnificent collection of clothes, jewelery, paintings and other handicraft. Coincidently, I myself wore a Maskit wedding dress and it hangs in my closet to this day. I responded to the post and I mentioned my dress. The blogger was very excited to hear about my dress and asked me if I would post a picture online. I promised to do so the next day (in daylight) which just happened to be our anniversary.
A coincidence?
I’ve been told that there is no such thing as chance …
I'm inclined to agree.
At my ancient age (!), I can say that over the years I have stood out from the crowd: at first unconsciously and later by choice. I grew up in Canada both as an American and as a Jew in a remote area far from any Jewish community. At my high school graduation ceremony, I abandoned the usual evening gown attire and showed up in full tux complete with the dressings of hat and tail. At the age of nineteen, I immigrated unshaven (the natural look – both armpits and legs …) and alone to Israel.
When I was twenty something my hair began turning grey. I was thirty something when I traded my long locks of hair for a Pixie cropped cut. At forty something, for one stormy night, I died my Pixie platinum blonde. It was but moments before my fiftieth birthday that I stopped dying my hair…
The shift began during a journey to the Galapagos Islands. I met my daughter in South America at the end of her gap year wandering the continent. I did not feel like messing with color: not on the trip and especially not on the cruise. I was curious to know what my new hair growth would look like: white as snow, gray or salt and pepper? Would the change age me?
The adventure began!
Since my hair was very short, I knew that by the end of the trip I have a good idea whether natural look flattered me or not. I was surprised to discover that my hair, unlike my father’s which turned white as snow in his twenties, became a beautiful mixture of salt and pepper. As the color was so interesting, the decision to stop being a slave (coloring every two to three weeks) to my hair color was an easy one. I went back home with my new natural look.
It is no secret that men have an ongoing affair with hair … There seems to be something particularly attractive about long hair. Perhaps it designates a fertile, healthy and suitable mate? One day, Stella, my hairdresser, informed me that today was makeover time. I came home cropped and almost totally hairless. I certainly surprised my partner. He had no forewarning of the momentous event. To his credit I must say that despite his disappointment he said, "Hey that’s cute. It suits you!"
Such was not the case when I decided to die my hair platinum blonde. He had nightmares all night. He did not understand who this stranger was lying next to him in bed!
When he first met me with my new and natural gray look, he actually complimented me. He emphasized how much he preferred the natural look and that it suited me.
Of particular interest it was to notice men’s reactions. Most of them were very complementary and liked the metamorphosis. Many told me that I looked younger and there was a new and beautiful depth to my eyes. Surprisingly, only one woman expressed her shock and vocal disapproval of my grey locks:
"You have a such a young face; there is no place on it for gray hair!"
In the light of day my wedding dress of thirty-four years lost its luster, quite different from my memory. It is not as white as it used to be. I thought that just for fun I would try it on. I opened twenty-something small and delicate buttons only to discover that there was no chance that they would close around me.
Was I ever so thin?!
Although I still have quite a ways to go until retirement, I complete agree with Mr Hickey’s sentiments. It's heartwarming to see photos from the past, recall distant and forgotten events.
