So I decided to stop colouring my hair. I say it’s because I wanted to embrace my age, to stop denying my 51 years. To have the freedom to live in Taipei for a year without the pressure of needing to colour my roots. The truth is, it’s because I’m lazy. One good thing came out of my self diagnosed possible depression, my funk, my ‘it’s been a really bad few years’. I have no desire to leave the house so my grey roots aren’t really an issue.
I was inspired by all the women on Pinterest posting pictures of their process growing out their coloured hair. Of course they look cool, and chic, rebels. I however do not look cool. I think I’m OK with that. Looking at the pictures I probably could have combed my hair. I’m also realizing how much I look like my Dad.
This isn’t my first foray into blogging, not that anyone actually read my blog. I blogged for quite a few years, and then as most blogs have done now, the writer finds other things more interesting or challenging and lets it go dark. The mommy blogger trend seems to have gone the way of the dodo, I suspect because their kids got to the point where they weren’t so cute anymore, marriages portrayed as the perfect unions failed, and there is only so long you can keep up a facade of perfection in life. Life’s messy. It occurs to me that this may be why no one read my blog, I never fit in any of the categories that seemed popular. I wasn’t a ‘mommy’, I don’t feel the need or desire to quote scripture. I can’t see myself chucking all my belongings and traveling the world. (I can’t imagine getting rid of all my books) My constant battle with my weight is not fun or successful, so that pretty much rules out not only weight loss blogging, but fitness and healthy recipes. I like to travel but my travel adventures are not very exciting. I’m not sitting on a stool in the street in Taipei eating noodles, or climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. My greatest travel adventures involved a rum bar in Manhattan and drinking two martinis on an empty stomach, and running from Elmo in Times Square. The Elmo incident alone is an example of why I’m not a good ‘tourist’, and one of several examples of why I hate Times Square.
So I’m blogging again. It feels pretty good. Like screaming into a cave to hear your own echo and knowing no one else can hear it. I had a friend who confessed to me when our kids were little that she felt so crazy at times she went into her room, locked the door and screamed into her pillow until she felt she could cope. Maybe this is more like that.