Queen for A Day

I have introduced the "little girl" part of me to you . . . now let me tell you about the little old lady who lives inside me.

For the last couple of decades I have found myself "searching for myself” in those wonderful commercials about hair. While it is true that I had long hair as a young woman, glossy and clean looking—chestnut brown, if you will, I thought no more about it. Did I look like those beautiful, nubile young women?—well, only the “clean part.”

As I have continued to grow older I searched for me, oft in vain, in those continuing commercials. But alas, I was nowhere to be found. Until recently that is. Trapped by a tad of snow and ice (most infrequent in Georgia) my time was relegated once again to watching TV. That day, I chose The Queen, starring Helen Mirren and Michael Sheen. And THAT was where I saw myself.

Do I mean the Queen--brilliant monarch, majesty surrounded by a retinue of those who wait on her every need? Do I mean a woman of substance who has outlasted untold U.S. Presidents, and steered the ship of England? Do I mean the head of a kingdom and a family for decades?

No, I “found” myself in Helen’s crimped little curly-fied hairdo. There I was, captured on my television set, as Helen played out the story of Queen Elizabeth II, leading up to her speech concerning Princess Diana’s death. But it was not the speech that was catching my attention—it was the “do.” For there I stood, proper acting, tight-lipped, steeped in years of doing my duty. She was stubborn, so am I. She always moves like she knows what she’s about—I try. But, she is like an old shoe that has grown dowager-like over the years, though still serviceable. Me, too.

You see, I have never colored my hair. Too much time is consumed in that task, time I could use reading a book. I seldom frequent beauty parlors anymore—they were just too hazardous to my mental health. Each time I came home, clutching the photo of some wonderful hairdo that I had presented to the beautician, I would look in the mirror. For the life of me, I could see no resemblance to the now tear-stained page I held. I have always had the motto, “Cut your hair, change your life.” And many times that has proven true, both good and bad.

So, I took to cutting my own hair. Why, I had done it for girlfriends, and even permed their hair—and it had worked. But, trying to get to the “back” of one’s head and cut hair effectively is harder than you would imagine. So, I gap here and I gap there, all the while telling myself it will all come out okay. Often it does--sometimes not. But I have learned through the years that it’s as simple as this: hair grows out. It will come back, so I can take another stab at it on down the road.

I do not cry or rant, or get my blood pressure up. I just move on. Long ago, I quit putting in a perm, just too much hassle. Instead I roll up my tresses in -- drum roll --you guessed it, those old lady foam curlers. You know the ones-- they are known to single-handedly sound the death knell to any kind of sexiness.

Then I had to ask myself—did I truly give a hoot? The answer of someone approaching 70 came racing to mind—no, I don’t. I know who I am. I am the Queen in a way. I am a caretaker and kingdom monitor. I worked hard to get my daughter through college and we actually paid our entire tab for student loans. I cared for my father through Alzheimer’s, was at my daughter’s side at the birth of my granddaughter, nursed my husband till cancer won its battle over us, and took the cat to the vet when it was time to put him down.

I had not saved the world, but tried to hold my little fiefdom together. I, like the Queen, had dedicated myself to my duty, and had pretty much accomplished the most important things I had set out to do. Why should I worry so much about my hair? I still had some hair, and underneath that, a brain that had sufficed so far. When a woman knows herself, and can even “eke by” through life, she just really isn’t that concerned with splitting hairs anymore.