Last week I read an article in the New York Times titled “Why Can’t Middle-Aged Women Have Long Hair?”  While at 39 I’m not middle-aged (when does middle age start anyway?)it did make me think, “Am I too old for my hair?”

My own hair is as long, it not longer (it’s just about two inches from touching my ass), as the lady’s whose picture accompanied the article.  It would also be white—compared to her graying—if I didn’t drown the roots with a bottle of over-the-counter hair dye every two weeks.

I don’t believe I look my age, in fact people often comment on that it when they find out my age.  My Mom’s friends often tell her “tu hija se mantiene bien.” Just as much as I don’t believe I look my age, I don’t always think I don’t look my age. I sometimes look in the mirror and wonder where time went, this is especially true when I’ve had a particularly exhausting day.

But having to cut my hair, the hair that I twirl absent-mindedly; the hair I twist in a messy pony tail when I’m too tired to deal with it; the hair that has taken me about three years to grow out…I don’t think so!

Societal norms be damned, my hair will not be subjected to other’s opinions of how it should look for a woman my age.  It will remain with me until and if I’m ever ready to let it go.  Eventually I will part ways with the dye (I’m almost ready to do so now).

My hair is as much a part of my words, my thoughts; a means of expressing myself. It dances with me, often finding a rhythm all its own. No one will quiet the voice of my hair or define its beauty.


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