Rock the Silver

Ivana Trump

Ivana Trump is 61 years old. Not a hint of gray until I put her in Photoshop. I used my own hair and cloned her some highlights. A primitive effort to be sure, but I think she should come to the silver side! Check her out in the bikini.

Fake hair memories

I wore my new fake hair to work last week, and I received many compliments. Most people did not know it wasn't my hair. At least that's what they said to my face! Wearing fake hair brought back some funny memories.

My mother was a huge advocate for fake hair. In fact, that's where I came up with the term wiglet. Lillian liked the Marge Simpson look, and she had a little wiglet that she wore every day to her job as a pharmacy clerk. It was my job to put it in every morning and fix it for her before I went to school. I recall lots of teasing and spraying and picking. The higher the better. On Sundays, she got added height with some sort of hat-like thing she wore to church. This is my handiwork below.

She was so disappointed I didn't go to beauty school.

I grew up in Southern California, where the nicest store at that time (that we ever went to anyway) was The Broadway. I loved going there. Shiny white marble floors. I'm certain they were real marble! Beautiful mannequins wearing gorgeous clothes we couldn't afford. I didn't care. It was the ambiance I loved. I distinctly remember a glass cabinet of fancy lace negligees upstairs toward the back of the women's department. Oh, how I fantasized about wearing one of those someday. By the time I got old enough, negligees were out and naked was in.

But downstairs, in cosmetics, was a counter where they made pony tails!  Really. They had long strands of hair in all kinds of colors, and customers would sit in the makeup chair while a woman "wove" a pony tail to match your hair. She would rake it through some kind of wire thing until it was perfectly blended and then seal it up at the end with fabric tape. I wanted one so bad I couldn't stand it.

I don't remember how or why or what it cost, but eventually I got one. You couldn't really do anything with it but make a bun, and I was quite content with that. I have a vague memory of sitting in that chair getting mine made. Now that I look at it, it was kind of a weird look for a kid. I'm thinking 4th grade?  It even looks like I am wearing a little net over it.

So, with regard to fake hair, I come by it honestly. Stylish Young Coworker was traveling last week. I told her I wore my fake hair, and that it was a huge hit. She said, "I need to see it."  And she didn't say it in one of those nice girly voices like, "Oh, I can't wait!  I'm sure it's adorable!"  This was more like, "Report to my office before anyone else gets there. It's not too late to save yourself from further embarrassment."

This doesn't sound promising, but I will wear it again and see if it passes muster with SYC.  It would have been a kindness, really, if someone had told me in the 4th grade that this was a strange look for a kid. I am counting on SYC to set me straight.

I feel bad about my pooch

The writer Nora Ephron feels bad about her neck. I like my neck just fine. I can understand her feelings, though, because I feel bad about my pooch. I never had one before. I just woke up one day, and there it was. The little belly that could.

Mine's not as bad as some. Nobody asks me if I'm pregnant. I've got that going for me. My clothes easily hide it. But it's not as flat as it once was. I know ... nothing is like it once was. And all you apples are thinking: whah. Still, what a revolting development this is. I thought maybe this week I would start some kind of a campaign to get rid of it, but I read an article that said it's really really hard and sometimes impossible.

Impossible sounds pretty hard. I don't think I'm up for it. I was admiring Gwen Stefani's abs. Holy cow. I read an interview where she said, "I hate talking about it, but it's true. I've always been on a diet, ever since I was in the sixth grade. It's an ongoing battle, and it's a nightmare."

Just not up for impossible nightmares these days. This girl just wants to have fun. Plus, I like food too much, oh, and a little wine while I'm at it. Isn't the sane option to focus on the whole body, not just one part that isn't to our liking? I am healthy and fit. Perfection was never a contender.

I walked my pooch pretty hard today ... it was a beautiful afternoon and a good opportunity to burn off some cellulite before my sister-in-law arrives next week (you may recall the cellulite wars). It seems to me that regular exercise should keep my friendly little pooch from becoming a big bad barking pit bull of a dog. 

Mine's more like a Yorkie. Soft, lovable. Maybe we should give him a name. I suspect he's here to stay.

Lieutenant Uhura

Nichelle Nichols, who played Lieutenant Uhura on television's Star Trek, is 78 years old. The top picture is from 2009, and the photo on the bottom is from 2010. She is striking, and I love love love her silver hair. It looks to me like she had a little work done recently. I think she looks good ... polished but not pathetically holding on to an image of youth that no longer exists. 

This is kind of an interesting philosophical dilemma. Gray hair is a style choice, and I happen to like that choice, but it doesn't necessarily mean one is a zealot for all things natural. There's a cornucopia of treatments out there to help preserve our looks in some form or fashion. Is there a way to embrace some of these treatments and live authentically without looking like Tina Louise?  Is there a hybrid solution, or does going gray mean we are committed to aging cold turkey?

March is the cruelist month

Spring just makes me mad. Forget all that rebirth and renew stuff, I want warm weather, and I want it now. Spring seduces us with promises of rising mercury, but then you wear open-toed shoes and a lovely lightweight frock, and you spend the day freezing your ass off.

March is showy ... full of promises that are slow to deliver. We have fun outdoor activities scheduled and cute clothes to wear, damn it! Let's get on with this show.  

OK, so I have issues with March. Today is the 11-year anniversary of my cancer diagnosis. I have been fine and wonderful since my initial treatment, but it scares the crap out of me just the same. I will say this. Living through that ordeal frees you up to live a little large. I like it. Note to non-cancer survivors: don't wait to be invited. It's not a club you want to join. Live large anyway. Not Amy Winehouse large. Large ... with seat belts and air bags.

Finally, for a person who largely lives on the Internet, I was surprised to discover I can't replace Google. Keep the day job. But I learned two funny expressions as a result of real human interaction. You probably knew this, but I'm a late bloomer. If somebody says you're the shit -- that's a good thing. MDAL is mutton dressed as a lamb. By the way, that's not us ... at least that's not the look we're going for.

So, happy March. Keep moving, folks. Nothing to see here.

I'd like to thank the Academy

I watched most of the Academy Awards looking for signs of gray life in Hollywood. Of course, there are tons of men with gray hair, but the women are few and far between. There were a couple of spousal units out in the audience, but the Red Carpet? Not so much.

My awards ... Kathy Bates takes home the Oscar for totally rocking the silver hair, while Helen Mirren comes in second with her gray-blonde mix. Jeff Bridges' wife, Susan Geston, wins best gray hair in a supporting role with what looks to me like natural gray highlights. I don't know who that other guy is, but I thought he looked exceptionally cool!

Shopper's remorse

What a crazy weekend. I had a shopping Jones and a hair appointment on Saturday. Everything revolved around the long-awaited hair appointment. My stylist books well in advance and if you snooze, you lose. It was all supposed to work in beautiful symmetry, but I totally screwed up the shopping experience and missed my hair appointment. I managed to score a cute top before it was all over.

I was wearing my wiglet and feeling girly, so I indulged at Ann Taylor on Friday. I had brain compression from the extra hair and bought two dresses, one skirt, one jacket, a belt, two cardigans and a tee. The dresses, jacket and belt were full price, the rest on sale and they said if I applied for a credit card, I'd get 15 percent off.

I never, ever get any kind of credit card from any store. All my bills go to one VISA, and I pay that off every month. I explained this to the sales associate, who said I could use the Ann Taylor card to get points but then write a check before I leave the store, so I don't have to mess with billing. Oh, OK.

When I got home, I found a mailer in the bag announcing their huge sale started Saturday. Buy three items at full price and get 40 percent off. My head was already starting to hurt, and I was sweating like it was the SAT and a train just left Boston to meet up with another one in New York and unless I knew algebra or geometry or something, they'd crash and everyone would die. This is why I majored in journalism. 

I did the math, and I would have saved less than $20 by taking everything back for 40 percent off the full-price items versus 15 percent off everything I bought. I wasn't going to do it for the $20 but then decided it was all going back anyway. Shopper's remorse. I did a fashion show for my husband, who said it was all fine but a little boring compared to what I usually wear. Wow, you wake up one morning and find yourself living with Mr. Blackwell. 

Conveniently, there's an Ann Taylor in the same little shopping center where I get my hair done. I had plenty of time before my appointment, so I started with the return. The sales associate was lovely ... said it wouldn't be a problem ... that I'd get a credit on my Ann Taylor card. I asked if I could have it on my VISA or cash or something, and she called the manager, who said they have a policy of crediting the card you used. I'm thinking, hey, didn't I write a check? I said, well, I purchased something yesterday, I bring it back today with all the tags and all the receipts, and you're saying all I get is a store credit?

The manager said, "Call the card company. Maybe they'll do something." 

This was all handled in a mature, adult way, but I was seething. This was a fair chunk of change I would have to worry about spending at Ann Taylor, which was suddenly not as appealing. 

It was a pretty day. I sat on a bench, whipped out my iPhone and made the call. The card people were very nice and said to wait a few business days for the transaction to go through and call back. They can either send me a check or do an electronic transfer. Yea!

OK, this wasn't necessary, but I went back to Ann Taylor. The manger was floating about, folding, refolding. I said, excuse me, I was here a little while ago, and we had this discussion about my return? You were not helpful. In fact, you couldn't have been less interested in helping me. I just wanted you to know there is a process for recovering the cash in a case like this, and it would be nice if you told customers how it works.

First, she denied that she was anything but pleasant, then she said, "Well, that's what I told you to do." I explained there's a difference between saying, hey loser, this is between you and the credit card company and pleasantly outlining a customer's options. I said, I'm telling you this so the next person gets better treatment. She managed to say thank you, and I scooted out of there for my hair appointment. 

Me: Hi, I'm Donna. I have an appointment at 2:15.

Tressy: Uh, we had you for 1:15?

Me: Noooooooo! I confirmed! I confirmed!  

Tressy: Would you like to reschedule?

Me: NO! I need a haircut!

Tressy: I'm sorry, but she's completely booked.

Me: A bang trim? Please? I'm desperate.

It was my mistake, but they worked me in for a bang trim. And it's not that I'm not grateful or anything, but they do look a little Buster Brown to me. Really, they're fine. I felt much better and made one last stop at White House Black Market, where I got the sweater jacket and cami as modeled in the photo. I like this outfit a lot and Mr. Blackwell approved, but whew, that was a long and winding road. 

Gone girly

I went shopping today and stumbled upon these little hair things at one of the kiosks in the mall, and they actually had silver! I bought one for $29 and immediately came home to try it out. I just love it!  I went back out to do some more wandering around, and a woman at Neiman's said she loved my hair. I said, thanks, I just bought it!!! I think it's fun and cool -- what do you think? Just for kicks or would you wear it to work?

Calling it quits

Not the blog, sillies. But it has been a week for quitting.

I quit doing other people's work for them. I will never be one of those people who says, "It's not my job." I err the other way and end up taking on other people's stuff. A young colleague asked me to edit a white paper he'd drafted. The paper was poorly written and sloppy in presentation. Within the paper were seven or eight mini-profiles, so I edited three of them and sent it back with a note.

"I edited three of the profiles to give you an idea for how they might be improved. I would be happy to review your next draft once you've had time to work on the others."  He actually came over and told me I forgot to do all of them! "There are five more," he said pleadingly. I explained it was his task to go back and try again on the rest of them. Oh.  But he did it, we tweaked the final draft together and we both learned something. Regrettably, he called me ma'am.

I quit torturing my eyebrows. I really do not know the difference between $70 eyebrows and $20 eyebrows. I shape my eyebrows at home myself, so all I know is that magnifying mirrors and good tweezers are a dangerous thing. Note to self: you don't have to get every little stub.

I quit worrying about the yellow bags. The trash is picked up once a week (Wednesdays) in our neighborhood. No limits ... all you can drag out to the street as long as it's in a bag. You can buy yellow bags from the city (box of 10 for $5.64) and they will pick up those bags on Saturday. We've lived here almost four years, and a neighbor a couple of houses down has had at least one yellow bag at the end of their driveway every Saturday without fail. Every Saturday.

Lordy, I have squandered way too much time wondering what is so dang volatile that you have to pay extra for it to go out on Saturday. Why would you pay extra for the yellow bags? What's really in the bags? Would they mind if I took a tiny peek? Do they know Wednesdays are unlimited?  Are the trash people in on this scam as well? I would ask for your theories, but I quit worrying about it this week. 

Finally, I quit the Activia Challenge. I started 10 days ago for the all the reasons one might want to speed intestinal transit time. Plus, I wanted one of those flat bellies like you see on TV. I liked the taste and all that, but I didn't exactly feel like it was doing the Indy 500 through my digestive tract. In fact, it just made me gassy and bloated. Like the opposite of flat belly. So not liking it. 

The long and short of it

I was never a believer in long gray hair, but I'm liking it more and more. I mean, you don't want to end up looking like some kind of backwoods vigilante with stringy gray hair down to her butt (such as one might see in the parking lot at some discount retailers). That is not the look we are going for.

But there's a chic and sort of soft ethereal style for silver hair that comes with at least some length and subdued makeup. As in like not red lipstick. Here's Jane Alexander before (May 2009) and after (January 2010). She's a beautiful woman either way, but I prefer it long. What do you think?