The Grey Color of Crossing the Six-Oh-Dear! Day

It's not so much that I'm touting my birthday—assuming that I don't die tonight—but today is my final day of being in my fifties. I may be sad. No, maudlin. Somewhat reflective. Kind of happy. But not really.

 

Two months ago I did something I thought that I would never do. I'm letting my natural hair color grow out. Baby, that's a freaking reality check. Thursday I either cut it to the one-inch grey and white natural color (a chic post-cancer treatment look), or I continue this subtle weave thing that blends the red remains with the grey and white business.

 

Why all this? I'm without a reasonable reply. It is, however, me and how I've approached whatever gifts and un-gifts that I came in with—or sort a of love it or leave thing. I've had to love it because I can't leave it.

 

I'm not the first of friends and family crossing that six-oh-dear line. I won't be the last. For two years I've written about it, which was okay because…my hair wasn't grey (?) so it didn't seem real? No intelligent answer comes forth.

 

So what to do? Pay tribute to my hair in all its incarnations from my first birthday on. To be continued.

Photos:
1)Piano birthday-girl--My first birthday.
2)A red cowboy hat third birthday.
3)Eighteen and ready for the world.
4)"Heidi" in a purple haze birthday mood someplace near Wrightwood, CA.
5)A working birthday as a reporter/photographer. Other newspaper gave newsman Jack Overlade the same assignment. This was his birthday photo for me.
6)Bookstore mama with Big Bird wishing me a happy 50-something birthday.

 

Edward, Evelyn, & Natalia—Creating A New Age

As a person who writes and one who is no longer of the Paris Hilton-age club, sometimes I feel that the creative dream is over. When I rise above that sulking moment, I then weary of the no-longer 105-pound and limber body. Oh woe is me.

Then I run into folks, like Edward Parone, who's "Octogenarian Blues" graced this Sixohdear blog, who is out there shopping his memoirs. There is also the fit and active lady of 70-something, Evelyn Dabritz, who just published another children's nature book, "How the Innkeeper Worm Got a Full House" for the Museum of Natural History at Morro Bay, Ca (and she also raced by me in a recent uphill hike!), along with a fellow Sixohdear member, Natalia Calderon-McDonald, who just launched her Cambria Sea Otter Collection.

I haven't even mentioned my own aunt, going on 94, who when I last called her was in the middle of assembling craft-paper baskets for her weekly story hour at a Palm Desert, Ca. library.

Good Lord, I hope that when my Sixohdear moment officially arrives that I can keep pace with these folks.

You see, I remember when my late godmother, Marie Heeley, was forced to retire from her government accounting job when they discovered that she was well over age 64, and considered too old to be useful. It devastated her because she hadn't lost her skills, and knew more than half the people under her direction. She was not ready to retire.

Hoorah that now 60 is the new 40--or maybe even the new 30. Does this mean that the size of my britches is now the new size 6?