Cat's Tales

by Catherine Moy

Jan 26, 2005

Hair is important for people. For some, like boxing promoter Don King and ‘70s icon Farrah Fawcett, it is their most identifiable trait. Guys fear losing it in middle age, and gals fear gaining it, especially in the beard area. If it’s on our heads, we hope to keep it well shaped or, at least, tame.
 

I bring up the hair thing because I was looking for a change. My haircuts and color usually bore me after a couple months. I don’t like the  run-of-the-mill styles, but haircuts for middle-aged chubby gals shouldn’t be too wild, I guess. A Caltrans orange-colored Mohawk would do little to highlight my crows’ feet or double chin.
 

I’ve had long hair, short hair, pink hair and brown, curly hair, straight hair, sometimes hair like a clown. Back in the ‘70s during my high-school days, my friend Jenny wore her hair like ice-skating great Dorothy Hamill. I got a perm and looked like radical black activist Angela Davis crossed with a poodle.

Before that my hair hung like Patty Hearst’s, straight and flat. Along came the ‘80s and great bursts of color. My stylist in San Francisco gave me a marine-type shave underneath, which he colored black, but left
longer wings on top. He dyed this a fluorescent red, which eventually faded into
a nice pink.
 

When I married Ken Man in 1988, stylist Lisa Lendio – who still does my wig –
curled my hair into a bob with layered waves. It was soft and nice, like a  bride. From there it went up and down in various cuts and colors.  I began growing it out a couple years ago. I don’t know why, really. I guess  I was arguing with middle age. “So you think 40-somethings can’t wear long
hair, eh? Well, if I can grow a goatee, I certainly can sport a mane of luxurious, silky hair.” Middle age had other ideas.
 

My hair grew, all right. But it wasn’t like the good old days. Gone were the  honey-colored highlights of my Patty Hearst days. In their place were the gray streaks of the witch in Snow White. Things came to a head when my father-in-law told me about a woman he saw at the supermarket. She wore long hair streaked with gray. “Doesn’t she know how
awful she looks? Older women shouldn’t wear their hair like that.”
 

I decided I need a change. I called Lisa then got some hairstyle magazines. My sister, Pooh, voted for a short cut. Zen and Ken Man like the hair a little longer. The magazines had styles of the stars. Britney Spears’ hair is too long and Mandy Moore’s is too short. I couldn’t find pictures of their mothers.  “I don’t know what to do,” I told Zen.
“I always just go to Lisa and tell her to do what she wants to do,” Zen said.
 

I spent more than three hours in Lisa’s chair as she worked her magic. She even waxed my goat hairs that dangled under my chin. I walked out with shoulder-length hair with highlights that should mask any gray. Nobody will mistake me for Don King. Maybe I’ll try his style the next time I get bored.