Why Millenial Women Deserve to Get Their Bitch On
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An Actress Goes Gray.
This line from India Arie\\u2019s song has been running through my head as a mantra for weeks. The problem is, right now, I am very much my hair. Maybe more so than I\\u2019ve ever been.
The ego is a tricky little bugger. I had it by the balls about three weeks ago. Admitting that I had a problem\\u200a\\u2014\\u200athat I was addicted to my image and obsessed about looking younger had this amazing effect on my relationship with my ego. I was totally on to her. I could tell exactly when she was rearing her head, and that kind of attention made it much easier to shut her down before she got out of control.
The day I decided to stop dying my hair and the subsequent 1sts that followed were very activating experiences that forced me to be in the present and take things one day, and even one minute at a time, as addicts must. The firsts: first time walking to the bathroom on a full flight to LAX without my hat on, first time posting an instagram story with the white roots and crying about it, first photo shoot, first audition, first time at the gym\\u2026 What all of these experiences were making very clear to me was that my (not natural) red hair\\xa0which happened by accident when I asked my colorist to go lighter to help hide the grays,\\xa0had very much become my (ewww) brand, and dare I admit, a big part of my identity.
Of course my identity has been carabinered to all sorts of unsustainable things. My eyes, my skin, my ass, the way I walk in low-heeled boots, and somehow, feeling good or bad about all of these things always migrated into my hair. When I felt all those things were being noticed by others, I became a sort of movie in my own mind, watching myself and the effect I had on others. The hair was the final shot in the slow mo version of that movie. I was under the delusion that all the people in the cars lined up at the light as I crossed the street were (a) watching me and (b) experiencing a curated experience of me that I was firmly in control of. Control. Control. If I just keep those roots covered I will have some control. I will be able to continue along like nothing is changing. Like I\\u2019m not slowly creeping toward catching herpes in an old age home.
What is truly blowing my mind about all this, and I have the good fortune to be facing it all at once cause I haven\\u2019t seen what\\u2019s under all that dye for like 14 years and it\\u2019s pure white old lady hair, is that I was willing to keep on pretending forEVER. I probably would have written it into my will that they touch up my roots\\u200a\\u2014\\u200aand died with the powder in my hands just in case so they didn\\u2019t get the color wrong.
So what happened? Why did I stop dying?
The rest of the lyrics of India\\u2019s song happened:
I am not my hair. I am not my skin. I am not your expectations, no. I am not my hair. I am not this skin. I am the soul that lives within.
As much as I have tried to make my body my identity, my self worth, my best asset, the thing I lead with, how I get my foot in the door, how I know I am alive, what makes me desirable\\u2026 I can no longer deny that there is a soul in there too (my soul is in the body\\xa0and\\xa0all around the body so don\\u2019t get too close or I\\u2019ll infect you with the inability to remain deluded). While I was still dying\\u200a\\u2014\\u200aevery three weeks my soul\\u2019s glowing white strings of passion would sprout up out of my scalp and patiently ask to be seen, and, like most women in relationships, one day she just got tired of my shit and announced that she will no longer be ignored.
So I saw her. And I stopped trying to cover her up, no matter how afraid I was that the version of me that I was putting out into the world was the only version the world wanted, I made a commitment to my art and to myself as an artist that I would show up to my own life whether the world wanted me to or not.
And what I started to see emerge was a woman. Not a girl, or an object, or an instagram image. A feminine soul.
That woman is more curious about love and inclusion, she thrives on overcoming her judgements of others and herself and seeing the parts of others that are peeking out and patiently asking to be seen too. I like her, and I wanted to know more about her so I just didn\\u2019t dye. I didn\\u2019t not dye, but I didn\\u2019t dye either. I wanted to look at her a little longer. And the more I did the more I discovered.
Not only is she curious, she is fierce. Her showing up and shining the way she does is a political statement, a statement that it is not shameful, but it is a gift to myself to watch my hair go gray. It is a gift to bear witness to my life.
So, ya. I was thinking all this good shit until the sneaky freaky ego and I decided to go to the\\xa0gym.
I\\u2019ve been making a habit of posting on Instagram whenever I feel like being mean to myself because of how I look (which is still nearly every morning BTW until I get some trusty red lipstick on). I have been doing this to try to turn the tool that helped make me into this identity obsessed monster into one that calls me out on my vanity, that I can use as a cognitive-behavioural tool to interrupt these patterns of active self-hatred.
I am a student of\\xa0A Course in Miracles. In that book it says that the ego (the part of our self that believes it is separate from God and from other humans) is suspicious at best and vicious at worst. You can never eliminate the ego, but you can teach her who is in charge. I like to think of her as a toddler who needs to be kept busy with games and toys, and I\\u2019m in the best spiritual shape when I can keep her busy with creating characters for my shows and songs, which I try to do as much as possible. And, although she misbehaves when I\\u2019m in the creative space, I know how amazing it is when she is out of the way and I can quiet her with more ease, so there\\u2019s a big payoff for keeping her quiet (my art). But when I\\u2019m not creating, and especially when I\\u2019m procrastinating, she gets vicious.
I\\u2019ve been so riled up. I feel like I\\u2019m having that post-menopausal zest that my Mom keeps promising me will happen, but I\\u2019m not there yet. My periods are pretty regular still and, although I sometimes wake up drenched in my own sweat; I think it may be from my duvet. I\\u2019ve been more productive than I\\u2019ve been in a while, and had so much energy still at 8PM this night that I decided to go work out.
One of the ways my ego tries to take over is to tell me how great I am. On this particular day, I was feeling pretty proud of myself for deciding to go to the gym, and she assured me it\\u2019s ok if I indulge in my self aggrandizement and wander down the rabbit hole of telling myself how much better I am than everyone else for going to the gym and even though my spirit self just wanted me to be in the moment and commune with my body, but I\\xa0deserve\\xa0to give myself props.
I have a small gym in my building that is nearly always empty, but tonight there was a woman in there on the\\xa0only\\xa0elliptical\\u2026 the one that\\xa0I\\xa0use for the main event of my workout. I saw her in the window before I went in and I stopped, turned around and literally had a physical fit. Didn\\u2019t she know it was MY time to work out and that I hadn\\u2019t done it in weeks? Why was she there now? Didn\\u2019t she know how busy I had been all day and how popular I am becoming on Instagram and that I started applying today to be a gray-haired model and the top agencies were definitely gonna sign me and then I am gonna get an offer from L\\u2019Oreal to dye my hair for 40 Million and I\\u2019m gonna say no?\\xa0\\u2026I think I even stomped my foot.
My spirit self intervened. I took a breath and got a grip. Decided there was a chance she may be almost done and that I could stretch first. She is a child of God after all, and therefore deserves her time on the elliptical. I went in the tiny gym and smiled at her.
She ignored me.
LIKE I WAS INVISIBLE.
ok. wow.
young.
well-off.
perfect body.
obviously an actress.
stressed because she had too many auditions this week and her boyfriend is pressuring her to go on vacation and doesn\\u2019t he understand it\\u2019s pilot season?
entitled b!tch.
WHOA.
I look at myself in the mirror.
My tummy\\u2019s hanging out between my stretchy pants and spaghetti strap tank top with built in bra. I make it disappear and am a little glad she\\u2019s been ignoring me in her sports bra and ripped abs\\u200a\\u2014\\u200aelliptical incline on 9, resistance on 6. She\\u2019s in the zone. C*nt.
The ego is suspicious at best and vicious at worst.
Spirit-self intervention. Saying those things about her\\u200a\\u2014\\u200aI may as well be saying them about myself. Ten years ago, ok, two years ago, hell, even two months ago, I was all those things I accused her of being. Find some empathy for this woman. Not because she needs it, because I do.
She doesn\\u2019t know you\\u2019re taking one for the team right now by going gray publically. It is not mandated that women make a deep connection with every other woman we walk by right now. She doesn\\u2019t have to be a part of this movement to make it ok for you to age. She doesn\\u2019t get it yet, and she doesn\\u2019t owe you anything.
I stretch.
The belly peeks out.
Armpit hair.
Neck wrinkles.
Gray.
When is she going to leave?
I get through one sun salutation, look over at her increasing the intensity of her workout, and realize this may take awhile. So, I decide to use my YEARS OF EXPERIENCE AS AN ATHLETE AND COACH AND DEEP KNOWLEDGE OF PHYSICAL FITNESS to start a deeply satisfying and effective workout that does\\xa0not involve an elliptical\\xa0(because I am more creative than that)\\u2026.which quickly becomes the most ridiculous and aggressive series of exercises I\\u2019ve ever done. Including, but not limited to, reaching out wide in a legs askance power pose with front and back shoulder isolations that made me look like a professional conga dancer whose world champion placement depends on my ability to have perfect shoulder roll symmetry and fix the jenky forward jerking on the left side of my body with the determination of Rocky Balboa.
Realizing I look ridiculous and wondering why the fuck I am inventing new shoulder roll choreography I tell myself it\\u2019s because I am so confident with my new gray hair that my true artistry is just coming out in everything I do, and definitely has nothing to do with her refusing to acknowledge my existence or a desire to just take up as much space as obnoxiously as I can\\u200a\\u2014\\u200aI add a wrist flick to the shoulder roll.
All of the love and camaraderie between me and my new Instagram silver sisters from the past month have now fueled a vicious separation between young and older. In my head she is disregarding me me because I am old. I think I look pretty darn good for 43, and it\\u2019s because I do shoulder rolls and wrist flicks instead of the elliptical, and I\\u2019m certain she\\u2019s secretly trying to learn the routine that I\\u2019m just making up as I go along because of my wisdom and I don\\u2019t need a machine to tell me when it\\u2019s time to climb a hill. I mean. LOOK AT ME!
Also. I\\u2019m allowed to have a flabby ass and arms and belly\\xa0because\\xa0I\\u2019m 43. She should know that. I mean, I have gray hair for God\\u2019s sake\\u200a\\u2014\\u200ashe should\\xa0be nice to me\\u200a\\u2014\\u200aI\\u2019m not competition for her anymore!!!!
ooooo. There\\u2019s the rub.
Ya. I do look pretty damn good for 43 when my shirt meets my pants without rolling up, but 43 is irrelevant to her. She doesn\\u2019t need role models who are aging gracefully because she is just never going to age. I was like her. Like two months ago. Until I just wasn\\u2019t anymore.
But I have replaced that old feeling of beauty superiority with a new one. Why do I feel the desire to still make it us against them? Did I somehow just switch teams? Do I feel like letting my hair go gray makes me the now wise, Queen of the pile who, if she can no longer gain the attention of men, will instead seek the adoration of women, and will viscously scorn those who do not bow down to me, deny their beauty and curse their workout?!
Or worse, have I become one of those women who tell everyone who will listen how old they are as evidence in the validity of their argument, or accuracy of their pessimism, or to gain a competitive advantage against younger women that I can\\u2019t out sexify?
This may take more than a spirit self intervention.
Ever since going gray I have realized how inflamed my identification with my youth and beauty have become. My pretty girl image, my red hair, now I have just swapped one addiction for another.
Being identified with anything other than my spirit is an identification with ego, and is not sustainable if I chose to live a creative, curious life. I will never be able to see beyond my identifications to ask the questions that make great art.
So here\\u2019s my spirit self intervention that got me through the rest of my work-out.
To my sweet work out frenemy: B!tch it up girl. You don\\u2019t owe me anything.
If you want to ignore me, sweat all over the machine and then walk out the back door with no eye contact cause you\\u2019re pissed I\\u2019m hogging the stretching area with my conga routine\\u200a\\u2014\\u200aI gots you. I can hold space for that. It sucks when you think you have the place to yourself and then some person comes in and wants you to smile. You\\u2019re young, you\\u2019re beautiful, and you\\u2019re furious, and you\\u2019re not allowed to be all those things at once and you\\u2019re not here for my entertainment or to make me feel better about my life choices.
Actually, I feel privileged that you felt safe enough in my company to just be yourself. It makes me feel like there is hope for the women of the next generation like you. That you won\\u2019t do what I did and spend 30 years making everyone around me feel safe and comfortable and enabling their misogynistic behaviour. Instead you will express yourself in honest and glorious fullness. That you will feel inspired to invent a new conga exercise at the gym no matter who is watching, and, in the process, discover a new way to target saggy triceps and name it the gray haired shoulder roll with wrist flick.
And maybe your bitch face inspired me too. Maybe it made me feel safe to be myself. To be b!tchy sometimes too. To let my maniacal freak flag fly. Maybe conga is the new me.
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