It’s odd how much can change in four month’s time. Especially while wading through the warped reality of a pandemic.

Before COVID-19 came knocking, back when 2020 made its sparkly and starry-eyed with-hope-and-great- promise debut, I reconnected with my friend Hal, a former neighbor. About every two weeks since the unfolding of the coronavirus wrestled a stranglehold upon our lives, we’ve been meeting to walk in a nearby park. I enjoy his friendship, his candor, and especially his humor. Last time we agreed to meet, I texted him the time and place. He replied: “I’m the guy with the Einstein hair.” I texted back: “I’m the gal with Medusa dreads.

This morning, I drove, with my wild Medusa locks, to the Parthenon’s Centennial Art Center, here in Nashville, to pick up an art piece of mine that premiered in Nashville Collage Collective’s exhibition. To document the occasion, as so many of us do via our smartphones, I took a picture. Me, the collage, and, in the background, the Center. Bearing five or so uber-stubborn pounds extra from early pandemic pantry raids in pursuit of comfort foods, I wore a mask; my hair looked bizarre, (something happened to it enroute, IDK,) three months of silver roots screaming their glory, my brow furrowing against an overcast sky. (Proof I can and do post unflattering selfies.) When I got home and got out of my car a neighbor taking out his trash seemingly looked at me askance. Back in the house, I glanced in the mirror. I saw the straps of my black tank-style bra peeked out from my shirt, which is not unusual, as it is a common style. But one strap was twisted, the other dusted with powder I’d put on earlier. I realized, upon further reflection, what he may have noticed, causing that askance look, was that, today, my hair bore more resemblance to Grandpa on the old 60’s sitcom,The Munsters than maybe Medusa.

Collage drop off day

A lot has happened since I dropped off my collage early February. I remember the day well, albeit it seems a century ago. I’d met for lunch a man I was dating. We’d shared friendly, fun banter and a nice meal. From there, I drove without GPS, which seemed an unusual feat, over to the art center where this picture with my collage and I was taken.

The next week this same man would join me for the art exhibition’s opening. A week later, my bad, I said goodbye and crescendoed a manic pace of online dating. More dates, more dinners for about a month worth of weeks until COVID-19 put the kabash on that phase of my life. I ended up Facetiming another man I’d dated while he was at his other home out west, until I called it quits with him.

…I never began dyeing my hair to change the color. It always flew in the face of how natural I aim to be with what I eat and put on my skin. Yet, the gray started arriving by my late 30s and I was convinced that the stress of my preschooler’s diagnosis with autism exacerbated the Medusa tendrils. I began coloring to tame them. It worked. Mostly. There’s a lot of jokey (and sexist, IMO,) memes out there about what we blondes (which is my natural color though it turned brown as I aged, pre-dye,) will look like after the pandemic. It’s true. I learned the month before the pandemic became our new norm, that I’m 3/4 gray. I’d been planning for a while to cut my hair short and go gray by my 60th birthday next month. But, liked the length I’d found, for now, and wasn’t so sure about going gray this soon and decided to also delay a shorter length. If the pandemic continues, I may sheer it off and allow the gray take over. Everyone seems to have an opine about women going gray or going short. (That’s annoying. And none of their business.)

Night of art show

But it does bring up questions about appearances and dressing for society. I’ve asked these questions for decades. Do I dress for me or do I dress for others? Fashion is an artistic expression. So, that’s one vote for me. I’ve heard some quarantined folks say they no longer care. I get it. (The powder residue this morning came in lieu of a shower, though I did bathe last night. Still, not my pre-quarantine routine.) But, what does it say about us? Did we dress to please or impress others? And now that we’ve been sheltered in place, we’ve relaxed our standards that it doesn’t matter? What did that public face we’re no longer donning mean? I’m not saying that’s a yay or nay. Just pondering. You’re welcome to weigh in in comments. But remember, it’s an individual journey and preference and we can easily buy into the patriarchal pattern with our judgements. (And, of course, it can be a patriarchal buy-in to follow the cultural norm of adornment.)

Right now I’ll settle for this.  —>  —>  —>  —>
On a good day. Foundation for sun protection, some cream stick blush, a few strokes of mascara, lipstick—my basics, topped by a new and growing, untamed crowning of silver hair. Will it remain? I’ve not decided. But I did purchase some special powder cover up for whenever I go out and put more of a public face again, before, I hope, the next wave of this pandemic. (Damn bats! At least Grandpa was comfortable communing with those corona-carrying critters.)

…Flashback to the future? 2006ish: short hair, younger self, with my now deceased father. Imagining short and silver with a b&w version, below.

Maybe another introspective opportunity afforded by corona: exposing our collective cultural vanity. And, a reliance on external approval….I struggle with selfie culture in using it for artistic means but giving the wrong impression. (There I go again. That thing about what others think. Apparently, sadly, I’ve not reached that glorious I don’t give a f*@k age and stage yet.) Patriarchal culture also warned us growing up:  “don’t get the big head.” Followed by cultural mixed messages to stand in one’s own and love one’s self.

Maybe that’s just it. Loving yourself. With compassion. A whole perfect and complete human made of the divine. Truth without anyone’s approval necessary. Okay just as you are: Extra poundage from pantry raids. COVID hair. Dye job. Medusa tendrils. Grandpa Munster resemblance. Any and all of it.

…Damn bats.