The other day, a scene from the movie Postcards from the Edge popped into my head. Shirley MacLaine is in the hospital and herface is as empty of make up – and eyebrows - as a portrait of Elizabeth the First.
I’d been standing in front of a mirror at the time and realized that now my eyebrows are disappearing into a soft dove gray, no one can tell whether I’ve plucked them or not. Aging does have its perks. This has a double bonus, since lately finding anything that small with a pair of tweezers is an exercise in futility.
As another plus, a lifetime of freckles is finally paying off: age spots and moles just blend in with the rest of the body landscape.
On the downside though, deer ticks are equally invisible, so a case of Lyme disease is probably just lurking around the corner.
In a related vein, I’ve often thought that someone should take a census of the number of blondes under thirty and over fifty. I think I can predict which group will be greater.
It’s remarkable how many women suddenly become natural blondes at a certain age.
And aging also has an advantage for anyone self-conscious about the world knowing whether you color your hair. The mystery is over, ladies. Any woman who still has golden blonde hair in her mid-sixties either dyes it or is likely an aberration of nature.