What happens when a sexy, confident blonde puts on a gray wig? The whole world sees her differently.
Going From Blonde to Gray
Women in my family do not age gracefully. We scream at mirrors, hurl expletives at our birth certificates, and yank our skin back at the mere suggestion of sagginess. My mother sobbed on her 21st birthday, for heaven's sake -- and this apple doesn't fall far from the family tree. So when I took this challenge to find out how the older half lives by wearing a gray wig for two days, first in Boston, then in New York, I'm nonplussed. "You mean I'll put on my usual clothes, eat my usual food, shop in the usual places -- the only difference being the color of my hair?" "Think of it as a sneak preview of your life 20 or 30 years from now," they say. I haven't been planning to let myself go gray, ever. But I'm willing to try it for 48 hours.
Boston, day one of my experiment. I've spent 20 minutes trying to talk myself into leaving my friend Amy's apartment wearing this wig. Said wig is actually quite fetching, much more so than my own baby-fine mop. Sure, it draws attention to certain lines around my mouth I wasn't aware I had, but I'm shocked to report that I actually like the way I look. It's just that, well, this thing makes me feel like I have a cat on my head. Surely the minute I walk out the door, people will shout, "Impostor!"
Okay. I've been outside exactly 14 seconds, and no one seems to be paying attention to the young fogy inching her way down Beacon Street. Just ahead, two shirtless construction workers hammer away on an old house. The closer I get, the less they hammer -- they've noticed me. Could they be less subtle with their let's-go-to-the-nearest-cheap-motel stares? Then again, I don't speak Spanish. How do I know these guys aren't saying, "Hey hombre, don't you just love how women can be both beautiful and intellectually stimulating at any age?" What normally seems like harassment suddenly feels more like an affirmation. If it's possible, I think I just enjoyed being ogled.
