Five years in Abu Dhabi, has made me quite blasé about the little luxuries of expat life. Frequent trips to the salon for grooming have become a normal routine. And so this year I resolved to focus my energy on more creative pursuits and spend less money on mindless frivolities. I decided to colour my own hair. So last week, I washed the grey right out of my day, in four easy steps. I must have missed a step, because this morning I spotted a few grey escapees!
The day before the cover up, I lingered in the toiletries aisle at Spinney’s choosing the correct shade. The rows of boxes, looking through names like ‘iced mocha’, ‘roasted cinnamon’ and other delicious euphemisms for brown. My stomach growled. I squinted as I examined the ‘before and after’ pictures closely. Surely, they all looked alike? Eventually, in desperation, I grabbed a box of ‘Sahara Sand’. I slid the box surreptitiously between the fat free organic yoghurt and a packet of crisps (baked, not fried). The ‘hourglass’ image reminded me of the young aerobics instructor at my gym. *Sigh* When did the pursuit of physical beauty become our lifelong priority?
I thought of my grandmother with her soft curves and wrinkles, her hand knitted cardigans and simple floral dresses, her grey hair never coloured or straightened. In the post war years when plastic was a new invention and plastic surgery incomprehensible, Gran never set foot in a gym, but she enjoyed ballroom dancing on Friday nights. An avid reader, she regularly combed dimly lit second hand bookshops searching for literary treasures. She unearthed historical novels printed on thick paper between faded, red hard covers. The only ‘Shades of Grey’ were on her head. And yet, there was no question that Gran was beautiful because life was better when she was around. Gran was the ideal woman. She was interesting and fun; she was everything we needed her to be. And when I grew up I wanted to be just like her.
I’m all grown up now and the strangest thing has happened. I feel compelled to hide all signs of ageing, to do everything in my power NOT to look like my grandmother. Nowadays, as women approach the age of fifty, suddenly everyone’s trying to sell us the fountain of youth. Well, I’m not buying it! Growing old is not a disease to be cured.
I’ve made no epic plans for 2014, but perhaps I’ll start a silent rebellion against the anti-ageing scam. Milan Kundera called ours ‘the planet of inexperience’. He said we are all innocent children at whatever age we are. So although I won’t be taking up bingo or knitting just yet, I might just enjoy the sweetness of this moment. Who knows, perhaps I’ll even enjoy a ‘shade of grey’. For now, I’m just a beginner, but hey, that’s half the fun of it!
By Angelique Goldsworthy
