Elderhair

Getting older is humbling. It forces you to embrace things you once despised—like hairspray. Growing up as a flower child in the sixties, I believed hair should be worn loose and natural. I wouldn’t dream of letting a funny-smelling chemical interfere with the free-flowing movement of my long locks.

But nothing lasts forever. My routine spurning of hairspray changed when I started sprouting something I’ve dubbed Elderhairs. Growing at the outer edges of my hairline fine as spiders’ webs, these little devils travel sideways to enter the corners of my eyes. In defiance of gravity, they work their way into my ears to tickle them deep inside.

You’d think the solution would be easy peasy. Just brush them back. Or use the mirror to locate and remove them. Alas, much easier said than done. They’re impervious to brushing, and since I’ve stopped colouring my hair, they stay under the radar even of the bespectacled eye, let alone the naked one.

My revised policy is “Bring on the hairspray!” Suddenly I can live with the unpleasant chemical smell and the gluey consistency. Who cares if my head looks varnished because my hair no longer moves? The relief of vanquishing those troublesome ticklers is worth the sacrifice.

I used to wonder why so many older women wore their hair cut short. Now I know. They’re tired of grappling with Elderhair.