I yanked out numerous of my bang hairs to no avail. When that wild hair continued to sneak in there day after day, I tried to change my hairstyle. My options were tremendously limited for reasonable styling alternatives since my hair is cut so short.

First I parted my hair on the right side, then I parted it on the left side, then I curled it all around. I just got tired of playing hokey-pokey hair (get it?), so finally in desperation, I went to my barber.

This time, my barber did the best job ever! But like all good things that come my way, I had to wait awhile for it.

You see, my barber does not take appointments. Most most of the time, patience in waiting is NOT my virtue, but since my barber’s shop is entertaining for me at times — I waited.

Those of you who know me well, know it really doesn’t take much to entertain me.

I especially like watching the old geezers get their nose and ear hairs trimmed! They always sit in the barber’s chair with a such a straight face … as if it is a normal every day occurrance to have someone stick an electric shaver UP their nostrils! I’ve also noticed that not one of them even bothers to flare their nostrils in order to accomodate my barber’s tools of the trade. Sheesh!!

During the main event, I usually bury my head in a magazine and when I chuckle at them and laugh too loud (rotflol), they just think I’m laughing at an article I’m reading. Heh-heh!!

I pull it off every time, but my barber knows the truth. In fact, I think he even understands me now. Sheesh, I show up for a trim at least every other week… his cuts are reasonable and his sensible advise sure beats the price of my EX-therapist!

I tipped my barber exceptionally well today. When I left his shop, my hair was bouncin’ and behavin’ better than the models in the Vidal Sassoon commercials.

My drive home as usual, was very pleasant since I knew that all the other drivers on the road knew I looked GOOD! When I know I look my best, it oftentimes goes to my head … errrr, pardon the pun!

Just after I arrived home, I’ll be darned if I didn’t notice that the elusive wild hair had crept it’s way back into my eye again! I had just spent all my play money on another dang haircut, unnecessarily!

I quickly retrieved the little eye mirror that I use to pluck my eyebrows and gosh, folks, geez, I’m so ashamed… I’m not even sure I should be admitting this on a public forum.

The culprit was a two-inch long eyebrow hair. I couldn’t believe the size of that lone hair! Good grief, I pluck my eyebrows as often as I cut my hair, you’d think that darned hair woulda’ been plucked eons ago!

To be on the safe side, I examined the opposite eyebrow. To my astonishment, I found my first WHITE eyebrow hair.

Ohmigosh, it’s been over a decade since I’ve seen my natural hair color but I naively never expected to see steely little white hairs in my eyebrows of all places! Isn’t that supposed to be a guy thing??

I immediately made a closer examination of the whole facial area for good measure. It is now my honor to announce that at least I do NOT have any nose hairs.

Well folks, you can bet that I won’t be laughing at the old geezers at the barber shop anymore! I’m on my way to becoming one sooner than I think!

Technorati Tags: barber, hair, Vidal Sassoon

DUMMERSTON, Vt. – Over drinks the other night, a friend explained to me “The Grandmother Hypothesis,” which is based on the idea that the human race has progressed so far in its evolution — progressed over animals, I believe, not over its own best instincts — because, unlike animals, who die after their reproductive life is over, humans continue to live.

That gives the race, as a whole, a large number of women with free time and energy who can help nurture their grandchildren, protect the family, gather food, and in general devote themselves to the welfare of the species.

The hypothesis, developed by a team from the University of Utah led by Professor Kristen Hawkes, an anthropologist, appeared in an article in the journal, “Proceedings of the National Academy of Science.” It tied in nicely with something I have been thinking about since I saw “Titanic.”

I loved the movie, not because of its special effects, and certainly not because I thought Leonardo for introducing me to her. I took from the film a calmness that lasted for days.

As it turned out, the very next evening, on public television, I found myself in a similar state of ecstasy watching “Porgy and Bess: An American Voice.” The program, created by James A. Standifer, a music professor at the University of Michigan, examined with intelligence and truthfulness the artistic and racial issues raised by the Gershwin opera.

But the epiphany, for me, came at the end, when the stars of the first production, in 1935, sat in an album-lined room listening to their young selves sing gloriously on record.

The camera, in a quiet moment of Zen felicity, lingered for a long time on the faces of Anne Brown, now 86, and Todd Duncan, 95, as they listened with looks of wonder to the great beauty of their voices so many years ago. At intervals, we saw them young and on film, playing the parts of Porgy and Bess, Brown so beautiful that she took my breath away, Duncan, so strong and yet so crippled that I was stories from that bottomless well of secrets that is the female heart.

I find myself in the odd position of being old numerically but in the middle of my life emotionally and professionally. My grandmothers were old at the age I am today; I remember them as plump, white-haired women with no life at all except the ones they made inside their families. I’m their age now, and yet I’m not old at all. And I’m at a loss to make the number that represents the years I’ve lived compute with the person who has lived them.

It has long been a truism that our society discards women after menopause. Actually, women are discarded all the way through their lives: when they become, for some reason, crippled; when they put on 20 extra pounds; when they stop dedicating their lives to being attractive to men; when they are pregnant; when they are mothers; when they are old.

It is possible that the Baby Boomers will change this, because there are as many vital and productive women out there who are turning 50 as there are men, and they have enjoyed jobs, power and money throughout their lives. They have voices and, perhaps, will refuse to be discarded. It is possible that “Titanic” was — pardon me — the tip of the iceberg, and we will be fortunate to know the stories of many accomplished women, that Toni Morrison, Maya Angelou, and even Gloria Stuart will not be so alone with their great achievements and white hair.

That is why I like “The Grandmother Hypothesis.” It makes sense that older women are a treasure, a resource, a source of wisdom, a repository of history. Maybe they even are one reason for the evolutionary success of the human species.

But I must admit that after a cognac or two, my friend and I started wondering, “While the grandmothers were helping the species to evolve, exactly what were the grandfathers doing?”

Joyce Marcel lives in Dummerston, VT. She is a free-lance journalist, a travel writer, and a music critic. This piece was originally published in the on-line newspaper, American Reporter, where her pop culture column, called Momentum, appears every Friday.

Joyce would love to hear your comments!

Technorati Tags: grandmnothers, Titanic

I was already getting used to my premature aging processes in too many other ways.

I had mastered the art of camouflaging the steely gray hair with hair dye.

I had learned all about picking a bigger size when my clothes “shrunk” in the wash.

I knew all the latest makeup tricks to blend in my “freckled” skin tones (okay, the beginning of liver spots!)

I had even carefully picked a small eye glass frame so that it would not emphasize my bifocals.

But bunions??? For crying out loud — I was only 35!

I was still in the mood for being on the receiving end of foot massages! I couldn’t begin to imagine the attraction for the man in my life to run his hands over my boney, knobby bunionated feet!!

I was rearranging furniture and decided to move an ottoman across the room. This particular ottoman had little 3-inch wooden legs as its support. Since the ottoman was heavy, I decided to pull it up on 2 legs and dra-a-a-a-g it across the room. When I got to the other side of the room, in a quick instant, I decided that I had plenty of room. Afterall, the the bottom of ottoman didn’t start until well above my foot because of the 3-inch legs.

So — I just let go and dropped the ottoman to the floor instead of simply lowering it.

They say wisdom comes with experience…

And yes… I experienced most excrutiating pain of my life when the wooden leg slammed down at incredible force on to my foot and big toe. The force of the slamming ottoman left a permanent mark on my foot and within days, I had grown my first bunion!

Do you remember back to your youth when you broke out in zits before a “first date”? It wasn’t enough to have one humdinger zit right in the middle of your left cheek. You got a matching on one the opposite side!

Within months, I got a matching bunion on my other foot. Call it sympathy, call it what you want! I was now finally right in there with :::genuine::: old age symptoms.

Five years later …

I recently found a corn on my baby toe. I thought to myself, “Sheesh, here I go again … a new symptom of old age.”

I was out buying new shoes for the kids and thought I might make wearing shoes bearable again if I would buy “extra wide” shoe for myself while there.

“Just another attempt at … camouflage”, I told myself…

The kids kept asking me why I was limping. I told them about my corn. I asked them to remind me to stop and and buy some “corn thingies” at the drug store on the way home.

They replied, “Mom, don’t bother spending your money. We have some at home!”

Puzzled, I asked, “Where?” to which they replied, “In the drawer”.

Assuming they meant the bathroom drawer, I decided against stopping at the drug store on the way home.

As soon as we arrived home, I asked my teens to show me the “corn thingies.” They pointed me in the direction of the kitchen.

Truly confused, I asked them which drawer. They showed me my utility and knife drawer. The drawer with the corn-on-the-cob “thingies”. Bwah-hahahaha!!!

Teens, ya gotta love ‘em!! If I hang around them long enough, I just may find the fountain of youth.

Technorati Tags: Aging, bunions, corns