July 1, 2007
Outta My Yard
By Elizabeth Peavey
As I nay dyeing
It all started with a simple word, an itty bitty contraction that threw
my world into a paroxysm of feminist ageist angst and conflict. The word
in question?
Ma'am.
Now, I'm 48. I've been called ma'am plenty, usually
by well-meaning baristas or bag boys, who pack no more import behind the
address than when they tell me to "Have a good one." This
makes me want to swat them and respond, "A good what?,
you English-language-strangling moron" – which, by the way,
is a very ma'amish thing to do, so I don't.
That's because I'm not a ma'am. I dress like a six-year-old
and act like a prepubescent boy. I am downtown and rock ‘n'
roll. I like to hang upside-down, go fast, be loud and behave in myriad
other unladylike ways that would curl the hairs on most real ma'ams'
chins. Really, by all accounts, I could probably pass for much younger
than I am. There's just one problem: my hair is gray.
This is not a new development. I got my first gray hair when I was 27,
the year after my dad died unexpectedly. I shrieked when I saw it, but
quite frankly, I was half-expecting at the time to wake up one morning
with a head of white hair. I think I had read somewhere that a deep shock
can do that to a person. Or maybe I saw it on a made-for-TV movie. Anyway,
the overnight transformation didn't come. The going-gray thing was
gradual, one strand at a time, over 20 years.
Early on, my friend Joyce (the one who bosses me around) nagged me to
have my hair colored. "Come on. You need to get rid of that mousey
brown. You should get some highlights – or why don't you go
red?," she'd cajole, and I'd pretend to think this was
a good idea long enough to have her finish pouring me a beer or making
me supper, then I'd change the subject.
After all, I had a look to protect. I was Cute Slob Girl. Slob Girls don't
get their hair cut on a regular basis, don't do their nails, don't
wear heels, don't iron, don't match, don't mewl over
the latest trends. And they definitely don't color their hair –
unless it's fuchsia, which I did to my Rod Stewart shag during the
‘80s, but we don't need to visit that fashion choice again,
do we? To color one's hair requires a commitment, a promise to maintain
the relationship. I was not up to the task.
But I was lucky. I got away with this Slob Girl look for probably more
years than I should've. I got carded well into my 30s. I hung around
with friends 10-plus years my junior, perpetuating the myth. I even found
and married a man who thinks I'm cuter when I'm dressed like
a bag of dirty laundry than when I'm dolled up for a night on the
town. Not to mention the fact I've never had a bathroom with decent
lighting in it.
And then one day I ran into an acquaintance I'd not seen in some
time. I was heading west up Congress, and the sun was streaming at me.
The friend seemed shocked at the sight of me. During the whole conversation,
she stared at my hair and wore a look that said, Dear God, what happened
to Liz Peavey?
I, of course, just assumed a pigeon had pooed on my head and the friend
was too polite to say so. When I got home, however, and did a full examination,
I discovered the cause of her horror. The few gray strands that had been
intermittently insinuating themselves over the years had joined forces
and formed flanks. Liz Peavey was officially gray.
A decision was called for. Age changes things. Just as there is a fine
line between being considered witty and sardonic and just plain bitchy,
I could no longer pass myself off as Cute Slob Girl. By keeping the gray,
I would be making a statement, sending a message to my younger sisters
in the trenches: No, to youth worship! Yes, to aging gracefully!
Each of my gray hairs represented every wrong turn and turbulence, all
my disappointments and good fights. They were a record of my experience,
and I was keeping them. Besides, I was too lazy to do anything about it.
And then the ma'am incident occurred.
I was at a newish bar on the East End with a group of friends, mostly
male, mostly older than I. (No offense to them, but it was not like I
was surrounded by hunks.) We arrived en masse, and in fine fettle we crowded
up to the rail. The young barmaid waited on the people to my left and
right, and then every single patron surrounding me, passing me by time
and again. Just as I thought I might finally place an order, her eyes
drifted behind me to someone who had just arrived. The gent very courteously
pointed out that I had been waiting longer than he. Even at this point,
I was ready to chalk it up, let it go, be OK about it. But then she turned
to me with a look that said, What.
Now, here's the thing: I have manned many bars and waited on countless
tables in my life. No one does surly public servant better than I once
did, but this was beyond the pale. This was war.
I'll spare you the details. Just picture a shootout between the old sheriff
and the young gunslinger who's just ridden into town. They're
both holding their own – ptwing! ptwing! – and it
looks like it's going to end in a draw, but then a final shot –
blam – takes the old-timer down. This happened to me when
the barmaid returned with my change, gave me a long, lean look directly
in the eye, and said, "There you go, ma'am."
I gripped my chest and reeled around the room, knocked over a couple barstools
and hit the floor. My compadres circled 'round as I sputtered these
dying words: "She ma'am'ed me, boys. It's over."
OK, so maybe it wasn't that dramatic, but she got to me.
When I sat down, I couldn't choke down my beer fast enough. My male
friends teased me about starting a cat fight, about having to leave, and
I kidded back, but my throat was tight and tears stung my eyes. This wasn't
supposed to happen to me. This was supposed to happen to other women –
all those real ma'ams, not Action Girl.
And that's when I started thinking about dyeing my hair. My 30th
high school reunion was fast approaching. (OK, only a total loser dyes
her hair before the first reunion she's ever attended, but I still
had time.) I even asked friends for the names of their colorists. Kim
offered to go with me. Joyce cheered. And yet, I just never quite made
the call. I went to my reunion – I looked fine – and quickly
forgot about the whole thing.
When I recounted all this to my friend Deb and her teenage daughter, Cadie
(who, by the way, I have known since birth and who says she can't
wait to have her flame-red hair go gray), Cadie took it in and asked with
the insight only the young seem to have, "Why did you want to color
your hair? Was it a self-esteem issue?"
No, I said. It was not because I wanted to appear younger than I am, but
because I didn't want to disappear. I thought if I could trick the
calendar, play out the clock a little longer… I didn't really
know where I was going with this.
Cadie's gaze was intent, she listened to each word. I was not invisible.
I was right there before her. I knew at that moment I had made the right
choice.
Besides, as Joyce – who was disappointed by my decision –
reminded me, I'd be hard-pressed to find Mousey Slob Girl Brown
in a bottle.
Elizabeth Peavey, for the present, wears her politics not on her sleeve,
but on her head. Her column appears here every month.
Links to past columns...
Downtown,
Maine: a primer
June 3, 2007
Rainy
Day Woman
April 29, 2007
Learning
to crawl
April 1, 2007
When
prigs fly
March 4, 2007
Stand
and deliver
Feb. 3, 2007
I
Love(d) You Just the Way You (Were)
December 31, 2006
Tender
at the bone
December 10, 2006
Solo
Thanksgiving
November 21, 2006
Raking
it in
November 12, 2006
Hallow-weenie
October 29, 2006
Hot
under the collar
October 15, 2006
Seize
her salad
October 1, 2006
Troubled
waters run deep
September 17, 2006
Trash
talking
September 3, 2006
[Editor's note: From Sept. 1, 2005, to Aug.
20, 2006, Peavey's columns told the saga of her first foray into home
ownership. For maximum enjoyment, they should be read in order.]
I'm
Gonna Give You Everything
September 1, 2005
Suture
Self
September 18, 2005
Subterranean
Housesick Blues
October 2, 2005
Material
Girl
October 16, 2005
Sadness
Street
October 30, 2005
Goodbye
to All That
November 13, 2005
Nightmare
on Elm Street
November 27, 2005
Rita
to the Rescue
December 11, 2005
A
Smitch in time
December 24, 2005
Love
for sale
January 8, 2006
No
place like home
January 22, 2006
Ordinary
People
February 6, 2006
Love's
Labors Lost
February 19, 2006
Take
the long way home
March 6, 2006
Dawn
of the Dread
March 19, 2006
Welcome
to the Dollhouse
April 2, 2006
The
Carpetbaggers
April 16, 2006
Toil
and Trouble
April 30, 2006
Exile
on Morning Street
May 14, 2006
Surface
tension
May 28, 2006
Packing
it in
June 11, 2006
Moving
and shaking
June 25, 2006
Crossed
wires
July 10, 2006
The
Old Folks at Home
July 23, 2006
Bewitched,
beleaguered and bedraggled
August 6, 2006
No
place like...
August 20, 2006
