Fashionista to Passionista

A few years back, some canny soul coined the term “TomKat”, and a fad was born. But no, it wasn’t a fad. Today, people are portmanteauing all over the place. Portmanteau is the very dignified term used to describe combining two words to form a new one. And so, it is in that spirit that I created the term fromance. Thinking myself quite clever to invent such a catchy new word, I set to work on this piece, only to discover that fromance has been in the urban dictionary for some time. Oh well, I did invent it. It’s just that a lot of people had thought of it already.

My curly hair has always been the bane of my existence. Its texture is such that my hair will respond to anything I do to it. Until there is one molecule of water vapour in the air, in which case, it first flips, bends, then coils into ringlets. Well, at least in the front. The sides and back, unfortunately, simply expand into a horror-inducing mess. Yes, small children shield their eyes as I pass, teenagers snicker, adults shoot pitiful glances my way. Sometimes, a kind soul will take pity on me and offer me a flat iron. Think Carrie’s Mom crossed with Ronald McDonald (I’m a redhead). It ain’t pretty.

There was even a point shortly after the Barbra Streisand movie Evergreen, where I actually permed my hair into tight coils. It was pretty – until it began to grow out and gave a terrifying new meaning to the word “flat top”. Back in the 80’s, creating a billowy cloud of curls meant mousse, and lots of it. I imagine when a man ran (or more likely, tried to run) his fingers through a moussed woman’s hair, it sounded like boots crunching on snow and there was probably screaming involved. You know when a frothy halo of curls moves as one entity, it’s helmut-hair hell.

Now why go to all this fuss to fight nature? Why not just embrace my curls/waves/frizz with abandon and be the real me? Why spend at least 30 mins each morning taming my unruly mess into some semblance of civility? Other than the fact that the real me resembles an Einstein who decided to go with Intense Copper, it’s because I love my hair. I love how it looks when I take the time to style it. I spend 30 mins with a blowdryer, three different round brushes, Velcro rollers, and a flat iron to achieve a “natural” look. I picture Picasso with one paintbrush in his mouth, another in his hand, as he studied his canvas, his muse, lost in his art. That’s me in my ensuite – I’m the Picasso of Porcelain. I appear to have six hands as I create my masterpiece, brushes flying, sweat beading on my brow from the heat of the dryer, Alice In Chains blasting on my iPod to pump me up, as I pump my hair up. It is a masterpiece. I can’t draw a straight line or sing a note, but damn it, I give good blow dryer. Good times.

But wait, did I not just say my hair was the bane of my existence? And now I am extolling its virtues? Isn’t that what legendary romances are made of? Passion, sometimes disguised as love, sometimes hate, but never apathy. Because here is the problem. After spending a hefty chunk of my morning coiffing up a headful of fabulous, I will see the beginnings of the dreaded curl forming moments after leaving the house. It’s like creating a turreted sandcastle only to have some brat come along and gleefully kick it to smithereens. Damn you, Mother Nature. Jealous  much?

Contrary to how I’m presenting myself, I’m no high-maintenance diva. More often than not, I will tuck my strands up under a ball cap to buzz around the neighbourhood. Long gone are the days when I applied a full face just to pick up the mail. I am very comfortable in my skin. I am content at this age and stage. My primary accessory these days is joy, and it goes with everything. But I’m just not ready to go hair-commando yet.

When I think of myself in the future, I believe there will come a time when I  chop off my shoulder-length locks and embrace my 50% grey. My morning routine will consist of finger combing my curls, and letting them dry where they may, in a curly, cute cap, framing the face of a woman who embraces where she has come from, and looks forward to where she is going. A time will come when I’ll want to do something else with those 30 minutes in the morning. Maybe I’ll be working with sea turtles in Costa Rica or whales on the St. Lawrence. A flat iron will not likely be part of the picture. I’m looking forward to that time, but it’s not here yet.

In a bar recently, I was participating in a trivia game – the kind where the questions are displayed on ceiling-mounted monitors and the players punch their answers into a console. I was winning, and I had $50 riding on the game. The last question flashed on the screen: Where is a woman’s hair the curliest? I grinned. Sadly, the answer is Fiji. I wasn’t even close.

And so my fromance continues. The effort, the love, the resentment, the disappointment, the unexpected storms, the joy. I’m embracing it all. For now.

It’s interesting how we see all experiences from our own perspective. Mine is predictably female. And so, without giving it much thought, I figured my experience – shared by many women of a certain age – was a distinctly female one. Not so, as it turns out. While discussing living passioniately with friends, both male and female, it seems that the search for meaning and joy is not restricted to the fairer sex. Just because they don’t talk about it as much, doesn’t mean that men of a certain age are not also searching for that which makes them feel passionate.

A biker friend of mine is involved with a charitable organization which helps children with cancer. He himself cut off many inches of hair and donated it for the benefit of others. He’s making a difference. A neighbour, past his 50th birthday, recently took up mountain biking, a sport usually reserved for men half his age. Fresh from an outing to the escarpment, sporting angry bruises to prove it, he couldn’t be happier. He’s raised his kids, and he is now focusing on what brings him joy. Another male neighbour is exploring his love of photography and running (separately – I don’t think he takes pictures while he runs; that would be dangerous.) It was actually a male colleague who brought Roz Savage to my attention. Roz is an eco-warrior who changed her life radically by leaving her former spouse and home behind, and began rowing around the world to bring attention to environmental issues. Not too far past his 40th birthday, decided he was not satisfied with the status quo and so, in a life-altering decision, is going back to school for his Ph.D. Yes, it affects his family. Yes, it means significant changes. But, as he points out, it’s his life, and it’s half over. One of my readers even commented that my blog – obviously geared towards gatherers – had attracted a hunter.

The common denominator here is that middle-age seems to bring about a time of reflection for some of us, hunters and gatherers alike. We feel compelled to find meaning in what we are doing, and doing what is meaningful. We have very little patience for that which doesn’t conribute to our own growth or to the benefit of the community. I think that’s a good thing. Agricultural revolution – industrial revolution – technological revolution – evolution revolution. We boomers make up a good portion of the population. We can make a difference.

As for the picture of Hugh Jackman, well, I have no idea if Hugh is a self-aware man. But he sure is pretty.