My fashion dilemma and my eyebrows

Image via: Glam4Good

Before I start, don't even bother to read on if you're only interested in a photo-log of my 'journey'. It's not happening. 

I've always had an antagonistic relationship with fashion. I was the first born, so mum had fun dressing me. And to top it off it was the 70s, so I was a freaking little hipster in floral smocks, corduroy overalls and red Mary Janes. When you have your first baby you enjoy adorning your new little bundle of joy in cute outfits. You get a ton of presents and hand-me-downs and you revel in your first opportunity to give your little 'mini-me' an identity. Within the first year though, you soon realise the importance and necessity of practicality. This usually follows your first experience of a colossal shit explosion, when suddenly Bonds onesies with zippers down the front seem like the only logical solution. 

I grew up in the 80s. It was short shorts with piping, tracksuits, glo socks (one pink and one yellow), jelly shoes, more corduroy, sloppy Joes and grandpa tops, denim and more denim. I was a teen in the 90s and that's when I went anti-fashion, because as a teenager, you're anti-everything, AS IT SHOULD BE.

It started slowly. My friends and I obsessed about INXS and that was my introduction to band t-shirts. I grew my collection steeply for the next decade: The Cure, The Stone Roses, The Pixies, The Clouds, Hole, The Beatles (it was retro), Lenny Kravitz, Rat Cat. I wore band shirts to identify my taste in music and reveal the concerts I had been to and therefore my personality. I didn't have a lot of money. I had a job from the age of 13 though, so I did have some and it allowed me to make independent choices about what I wore (and listened to); clothes and music were all I spent my money on. I remember saving up to buy my first pair of Doc Marten boots and it was exhilarating. To this day, when I feel like treating myself to something special to wear, I buy a pair of Docs.

I swung between Goth and Hippy - let's face it; the ingredients of Grunge, never committing to either and on some level always knowing that teenage fashion was just a bunch of bullshit to sell you stuff and convince you that you needed to 'pick one' subculture to fit into. The minute something became 'mainstream' was the second my generation, Gen X, rejected it. 

When I was perceived by others as Goth, it was because I was wearing black. I loved wearing black, I still do. I related it to my cultural heritage of the traditional Maltese dress called the Ghonella. Black is an easy and practical choice. I loved lining my eyes in heavy black eyeliner. It made me feel scary and powerful; a throw back to the days when mum dressed me as a Gypsy for Maltese Carnival. I have big eyes and when I line them they look huge and foreboding. If I didn't want to make eye contact, I wore black makeup because no one could look at me for long without turning their gaze away. It accentuated my rage. I plucked the shit out of my eyebrows. It was fashionable to have thin, arched, 1920s eyebrows in the 90s. They looked feminine, but they also made my giant black-lined eyes look even bigger. I dyed my hair black or blue black.

When I wasn't feeling dark I was indulging in the trend of bringing back 60s idealism, psychedelia and shit loads of Pucci and paisley and I dyed my hair red or burgundy. I discovered the local Indian fashion shop that sold beautiful cotton maxi skirts and dresses, cheese cloth blouses and paisley scarfs. They also introduced us to silver jewellery, gemstones, crystals and incense. Looking back and still today, I'm aware that I was possibly appropriating culture, especially more recently since piercing my nose. I haven't made my peace with any of it yet, but I have awareness. I just like what I like. Again, I'm sure my traditional Maltese peasant dress roots has something to do with my taste and definitely explains my love of crocheted lace. I had crocheted dresses and cardigans that looked like doilies and wore them shamelessly. I have previously written about my crochet addiction.

The dichotomy of black and colour suited my personality of extremes and I could go one way or the other, or a bit of both. I confused a fellow student at Sydney University during a first year Sociology lecture. When I met her I was wearing a black Robert Smith t-shirt, over a short black mini and black opaque stockings beneath my black Doc boots with purple laces. She was a proper Goth, only ever wore black and lace and described to me in detail what her funeral was going to be like. The next time we met up I had on a green and yellow cotton Indian skirt covered in Aztec suns, a Stone Roses t-shirt with holes in the shoulders and my black converse Chuck Taylors. She snubbed me! She was disgusted that I was bright enough to hurt her eyes and her dark, dark soul.  

Which brings me to my dilemma with clothes and body adornment/image now. I stopped dyeing my hair a few years ago. It coincided with me having three young children and making a bet with my hairdresser that I wouldn't cave. I've now fully embraced my greying hair and enjoy the discomfort it provokes in others, in particular, other women. I still get told things like "you're too young to go grey", when in fact I'm looking my actual age and the hairdresser (not the one who I'm WINNING the bet against) still asks if I will get a colour today. During my last haircut, I received unsolicited and extensive advise about dyeing my hair. I didn't hesitate to mention that my husband never gets asked about his greying hair and that I'd been dyeing my hair since I was 15 and knew all about tints, rinses, bleaching, peroxide, lemon juice, roots, foils and permanents, but had chosen to save my time, money and scalp and resist the need to be infantilised.  As women, we are not allowed to grow old. We are compelled to stay child like, free from body hair, coarse hair, white hair, wrinkles, crinkles, wisdom and strength. As we get older and lose our ornamental value, we become invisible. In the media, the workplace, public spaces and anywhere where power and influence lies. This is the general rule. Women break rules all the time. And the way to break this stupid rule, in my opinion, is to get old and get visible. Get hairy, frizzy, grey, louder, stronger and in everyone's face - like men do. When men do it we don't blink an eye. We commend them and give them a parade for being 'silver foxes'.

I'm fighting the pressure to address my body hair. I don't systematically monitor my body and spend time, effort and sometimes pain to make myself prepubescent anymore. Don't get me wrong, I still groom and shave when I feel like it. Literally when I get in the shower and go, "you know what, today I'm finding a razor and spending an extra 10 minutes shaving and moisturising." These efforts are getting to be few and far between. I literally can't be arsed that often. I've also stopped plucking my eyebrows. This has been really hard to stick to. I had thick, uneven eyebrows as a teen. I'm positive that I if I'd left them alone, I would have been able to just tidy them up and the caterpillar-brow fashion of today would have been entirely accessible. However in a bid to succumb to the pressure to look more feminine and less ethnic, I plucked the bajayzus out of them and now they WON'T FUCKING GROW BACK! Well that's wrong, that was just the initial panic, but my failure to give a shit meant that I have been able to neglect plucking them and ignore their asymmetry for long enough for them to bulk up a little. For when I'm going out somewhere and feel like wearing makeup, my discovery of a very subtle eyebrow pencil gives me the opportunity to colour them in (on a cool day when I don't have sweat pouring down my face) to even them up a bit. However, I will admit, that I'm paranoid that I've become that chick. The one with the coloured in eyebrows and not in a Kardashian way, but a disconcerting and strange way. If I knew then what I know now I would never have touched them and I wouldn't have made fun of that mum at school who drew her entire eyebrows on depending on her desired facial expression! When I colour my eyebrows in, I feel like I look like Bert from Sesame Street.

So, here I am; 42, grey hair, hairy legs and pits, coloured-in eyebrows and I have nothing to fucking wear. I hate clothes. I hate wearing them, I hate styling them, I hate looking like a Big W catalogue, because let's face it, that's what everyday people wear. Myer is for wankers. I have for a long time now refused to buy expensive clothes. I'm not that person. It would be a lie. So I buy cheap clothes, but I'm not that person either because, you know, I object to slave labour and disposable fashion. I would love to make my own clothes because I know what everything would look like. In summer, I'd wear cotton peasant skirts and dresses with tank tops and in winter I'd be in jeans (more specifically, elasticised jeggings) and slouchy tops. I envisage going out in pajamas as a fashion. Draw string and elasticised pants made of linen and cotton, and loose fitting tops with low necks so I don't feel like I'm suffocating. I could make my own clothes, but fabric is expensive and I have not the time nor the patience. I hate clothes, but I can't walk around naked!

So now, I look for a bargain where I can get it, at the big department stores or online. I'm still part Goth, part Hippy at heart, mostly dressing like a toddler, happily aging and breaking the so called rules. In the end, I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror and then for the rest of the day, people have to look at me so in fact, it's their problem what I look like. It's none of my business what they think of my attire. I know when I open my mouth to smile and speak, when I look someone in the eye to connect, that's when who I am takes shape. And if they can't see beyond what's concealing my nudity, that's their dilemma not mine.

I'm Addicted to Crochet

It might seem like a strange hobby for a young woman. When I say young, I mean 40ish, which isn’t that young really, but I’ve been crocheting for years. I must have been in my late teens when I first learned and completed my first project, a granny blanket.

Crocheting is one of my favourite, if not at the top of the list, pass times. I was taught by my mum and my aunty and it is something passed along from one woman to another in my family, no doubt most families, of women who crochet, knit, stitch, sew. It is one of those oral traditions and practical skills that women just show and teach each other. Although these days, with Pinterest and super crafting websites, the abundance of materials, design and information sharing, it’s no longer just a pass time for old grannies. It’s a global art form ranging from the humble beanie to elaborate creations, like the art works of Shauna Richardson who crochets giant animal sculptures that were featured in the London Olympics. Her work is known as crochetdermy – literally crocheting life size and larger, true to life animals. 

I remember traveling through Europe in my early 30s and being completely enamoured by the lace making traditions in Venice and Malta. Those artisan crafts are at risk of disappearing and they were urging young women to take an interest, to talk to their elders about the craft and perhaps even learn, so they can pass it on to future generations. 

Lace Displays in Venice - Own Photos

Maltese lace making – Image via maltainsideout.com

     

I once attended an exhibition at the Powerhouse Museum in Sydney that showcased some incredible lace and crochet creations. From wall hangings to garments and jewellery. Even crochet inspired urban fencing! It was truly incredible.

Crocheted Tea Set – Own photo

Wall hanging - Own photo

Garments – Own photo

Jewellery – Own photo 

Crocheted fence – Own photo

I love everything about crocheting. I love buying the yarn. Here I am holidaying in New Zealand in 2010 in a yarn shop. Happy much!!!

I love the feel of the hook traveling through the soft yarn and the rhythmic repetitive knot making, which is all crochet essentially is. Over the years I practiced the basic stitches over and over until I could do it without looking and gradually learned to not only understand the combinations and designs by reading written patterns, I also taught myself to read diagrams, which are much easier and less prone to errors.

It’s easy to learn how to crochet these days. There are YouTube tutorials for everything and the simplicity of crochet, once understood, demonstrates the endless possibilities that you can create and make. From garments to dolls, blankets, homewares, bags and anything else you can come up with. And it doesn’t have to look daggy. Some of the most well known designers like Dolce and Gabbana have released crochet lines. But who would want to spend exorbitant amounts of money on a homophobic and misogynist brand when you can make shit for yourself.   

Crocheting gives me peace of mind. It is incredibly meditative and relaxing, but it isn’t mindless. There is a lot of concentration and problem solving involved. Also mathematics, logic, creativity, ingenuity, patience and generosity. Crochet is a wonderful avenue for gift giving. I love nothing more than to make something for someone else and there are many opportunities to crochet for charity; from blankets for refugees, little pouches for orphaned baby animals and tiny beanies and booties for newborns and premature babies in hospitals.

Crochet as therapy is undeniable for me. It puts me into a meditative state, regulates my breathing and distracts me from negative thoughts. It’s a great time filler and lets me surrender to a productive experience when I’m feeling idle or am procrastinating. Best of all, it keeps my mind active and alert, but at ease. There have been some suggestions that crafts like crocheting can improve the health of the mind, even preventing or delaying the onset of dementia. It can improve memory and trigger recollection of treasured events in one’s life. The book Crochet Saved My Life by Kathryn Vercillo talks about how crochet can help with depression and stress at the very least. There isn’t a lot of scientific evidence to support the health and psychological benefits of crochet. Most of the information tends to be anecdotal and comes from people’s individual experiences. My uncle told me that his mother once had a stroke and the doctors weren’t optimistic about her recovery. She was a champion level crocheter. She invented stitches and patterns in her mind and could make absolutely anything from crochet. She did absolutely beautiful work. He tells me that after her stroke, she resumed crocheting and her facial paralysis improved. In fact, she made a complete recovery and astounded her doctors. It is hard to prove if there was a link between her crocheting and her recovery, but the doctors thought it was possible. It certainly didn’t do her any harm and she lived a healthy and productive life for many more years. 

I have made so many things over the years. For myself, my friends, their babies, my babies, for raffles and for strangers. I’ve photographed most things because I part with most of them. Someday I hope to share this skill with my daughters. They watch me now, mesmerised by my hand movements and the colour of the yarn. Ok, so mostly they play with the balls of yarn like kittens and undo my rows by pulling at it, thinking it's a game, but I do see that glimmer of curiosity and they love trying on their hats and ponchos as I make them. They watch me wear my beanies and scarves and gloves and smile at all the colours of yarn in the big bucket by the lounge. When all else is just too hard, I crochet. I sit quietly and knot and knot. Mostly I make little projects that are easy to complete and give me instant gratification, but there’s nothing more satisfying than finishing a big job like a blanket. The girls have one each and I made all three while carrying them in my belly, those memories woven in every stitch.

I'm Letting My Hair Go Grey

The first time I tried to change the colour of my hair, my high school friend and I, at 14, cut up a lemon and rubbed it all over our heads. We spent the afternoon in the sun hoping our brown hair would lighten and have lovely blond streaks through it by the end of the day. It didn't. We just ended up smelling like lemon (not so bad) and having to wash out lemon pulp and stickiness from our heads. When that didn't work we tried Peroxide; 0 - 100, no mucking around. We poured the entire contents of the bottle into the bathroom sink at my mum's place, filled the rest with water and tried combing it through. We didn't get the instant gratification we wanted as the results take at least a few minutes so we just dunked our heads in. We then filled our water spray bottles with Peroxide and water so that we would continue to lighten our hair each morning when we sprayed it wet to style it. I think mum inadvertently used it a couple of times too....oops!

The result? We both became gingers. Gingers with black roots. We told our school teachers and our parents that the lemon juice had been a success and that the wonderful sunshine we had exposed ourselves to over the school holidays, had done the trick, turning our once brown hair orange. I don't think they bought it. They were always telling us to get outside and enjoy the fresh air when all we wanted to do in summer in those days was to wear black and sit in our rooms reading, listening to music, writing in our diaries and sulking. This is me with my little sister around that time. Black t shirt, black shorts, orange hair. It was 1989.

When my peroxided hair started to grow out, I decided to put a rinse through it to even it up. I chose burgundy, a deep reddish tint, instead of reverting back to my natural brown. It was the beginning of many years of dying my hair to change my look. When I discovered the permanent colours, I tried them all. I dyed it black when I felt melancholic and dark. Red mahogany or aubergine when I felt outrageous and adventurous. I tried every shade, although to be honest, those packet jobs don't really provide a wide spectrum of colour. They always end up looking like one of two colours, black or red. My mum used to say to me that I would regret dying my hair so young because some day I would have to do it to cover up grey hair and it won't seem like so much fun anymore. She was right. That's where I'm at now.

The permanent colours you used to get back then had tons of ammonia in them. They stunk up the entire house and made my eyes water. They stained my neck and my forehead and my hands and the towel and everything the toxic goo touched, but I still did it, regularly. It became a habit, part of my routine that I topped up every 4 -8 weeks to blend in my roots and update my look. 

These days the packet stuff is so much more pleasant. Many of them do not contain ammonia anymore, they develop in under 15 minutes, they have lots of lovely natural ingredients in them and aren't as difficult to scrub off your face when you accidentally scratch your nose with a gloved hand full of dye by mistake. They don't take too long to work and smell pleasant. They comb through your hair easier and leave your hair so soft and luscious they count almost as a treatment. In fact that is why I have continued to use them and have never had my hair dyed at the hairdresser, choosing instead to DIY it at home myself. Except for the time, way back in the early days, when I decided to get a red streak in the front of my hair. I went to the hairdresser and she bleached the front and then dyed it bright red. It DID NOT turn out the way I wanted and if I ever dig up the photo that mum took of me so that she could taunt me with it in the future and prove her point about how ridiculous I looked, I will not post it here at all. I will burn it in the kitchen sink like I used to do with photos of old boyfriends.

I noticed grey hairs very early on. I think the first was in high school in my final year. I put it down to the stress of exams and didn't really care too much about it because I was colouring my hair regularly anyway so no body would even notice. This continued for decades. It is only really in the last 5 years or so that the greys have started to become increasingly abundant and stubborn and noticeable. They are so much harder to cover, because there are so many of them and let's face it, doing a hair dye job at home is not the best way to achieve total, even coverage. In fact, tie dyed is more of an apt description. I just make sure the top and front are covered, what happens underneath is another story. It's all about blending it in. These days the grey roots make an appearance a lot sooner than the 4 - 8 weeks. They start rearing their short, puby little ugly heads by the first wash and it's down hill from there.

I refuse to go to the hairdresser to get my hair dyed to this day. I'm lucky if I go twice a year for a haircut let alone going every few weeks to get my roots done. It is one of my absolute pet hates. I hate the chit chat, I hate the powerlessness and the vulnerability of sitting in front of the mirror after they've washed your hair, dripping wet and looking like a drowned rat. The lighting is shit and hideously unflattering. I hate how they never scrub the underneath part of your scalp. I hate having water trickle down the back of my neck when I'm fully clothed. In fact when I do go to the hairdresser, I wash my hair at home and make them just cut it. I also style it myself, unless I have a very rare important occasion, like my wedding day and even then I never understand what the hell they're thinking when I see the finished product. Three hours of blow drying and straightening and curling so that I can look like anyone but myself. I hate the product pushing and the barrage of questions. I always feel like I'm at a job interview at the hairdresser's. They quiz you about your life like it's their business. They give you the impression that they want to get to know you, but that's bullshit because they never remember you the next time or they get someone else to do your hair. They never want to divulge anything about themselves either. I could pretend I'm on a talk show. I also hate the judgement. So what if I tried to give myself a fringe and it turned out crooked; so what if I sit on the couch and split my ends to my scalp sometimes when I watch tv; so what if I can't get the hair dye in the bits behind my ears. Who else, other than the hairdresser, is looking that closely at my head? 

I can count on one hand how many times I've come back happy from the hairdresser. It's always an ordeal. The best experiences I've had have been when I've gone in for a simple trim or a simple, but dramatic change. Long hair to a short straight bob is one of my favourites; can't go wrong. Trimming long layers is pretty straight forward too, although a few have fucked even that up because I always ask for a V shape, but it always ends up looking like a U shape. 

I once went to a hairdresser who I specifically told NOT, I repeat, NOT to razor my hair; a technique where they run a blade up and down the hair shaft to thin it out. I explained that my hair is quite coarse and razoring tends to aggravate the frizz. It looks great in the moments after it is done, but as soon as it starts to grow again, it goes hay wire. He proceeded to razor my hair with sharp scissors and when I screamed at him to STOP (he didn't hear my initial whimpering) he explained that he wasn't using a razor, but scissors. It didn't occur to him that THE TECHNIQUE WAS THE SAME! I lost my shit that day. I was 8 weeks pregnant, nauseous and emotional and my brother's wedding was that weekend. Luckily I had a birthday voucher from my brother to go to another salon and have it styled for the occasion. They curled the bejesus out of my hair while I sipped on ginger beer and sweated and held back spew and by the middle of the day when the festivities began, the curls had settled and it didn't look half bad. One of the success stories. I also recall a time when I walked out of a salon without paying because after letting me wait an hour beyond my appointment and then spending another hour cutting air so that there was no hair on the ground AND THEN having the audacity to ask for $60, I decided that I would rather have them chase me through Town Hall station (I don't think that particular salon is under the same management anymore) than give them a penny of my hard earned cash. I'm sure the girl that cut (and I use that term loosely) my hair was sedated or recovering from a lobotomy. 

I've had some pretty good experiences too, don't get me wrong. It's just that the bad ones out weigh the good. I once went to a salon where the hair washing chairs were massage chairs and to top it off the hairdresser washed my hair thoroughly and massaged my scalp with a choc peppermint oil that left me euphoric. I vibrated into oblivion. I don't remember the rest of the experience because I was off with the pixies, but I do remember leaving the place looking like a celebrity because she did an amazing blow dry. I told her I would have to go out that night just because I looked instantly dressed up with that hair. I didn't; I got a bottle of wine and watched TV all night, getting up to look at myself in the mirror once in a while to admire my head. By the time I needed another hair cut, I'd moved house and haven't been back since. I wonder if the salon and the same hairdresser is still there? They often aren't.

The whole front of my head, especially my right side is now pretty much white when the hair colour fades. If I part my hair anywhere along my scalp, the roots are grey. I can keep putting colour through and enjoying those first few days of soft, luscious, even coloured hair or I can find another solution.

Ombre or ballyage hair is all the rage at the moment. Basically it is the look bottle blonds get when their dark roots grow out. Like this.
             
Hang on a minute! I was way ahead of my time! If only it was fashionable when the Peroxide was growing out. Unfortunately at the moment, my hair is doing this in reverse. 

I could go for this look instead.
            
It's an option, but I don't think a blonde head near my face would suit me.

If I was 20 years younger I would totally do this! Complete with the tattoos and blue contacts. This is what I tried to do and failed when I was 17, but with red instead of blue - it ended up being more orange than red. I might still do it one day. I can always wear a beanie if it fails. I crochet you know.

So what are my options? I would like to work with my head instead of against it. It's possible. I wanna be like Helen Mirren and go grey and then dye it pink. Like this. Totally foxy.
   

Heaps of women rock grey hair. Why is it only considered distinguished on a man? 

What does this make you think when you look at it? She needs to touch up her hair right? Why?

  

But this doesn't make you think twice, right?
   

On a woman, grey hair apparently makes her look haggard not honorable. It's the old maiden, mother, crone scenario. Women are bundled into one of these three categories. Maiden is young, flawless, beautiful, relevant; everything we see in advertising, everything we are indoctrinated to value as a society. This can also be divided into two sub categories. Virgin or whore. You can thank the Abrahamic religions for that one. Is the beautiful young woman a Mary the Madonna or Mary the Magdalene? Thanks again religion! 

Mother is the next stage, so if you have moved beyond the maiden 'age' and still haven't procreated, people start to pity you or assume you're a ruthless career woman who is completely self centered and self absorbed. You must be a spinster because what woman in her right mind would decide not to have children consciously? Or maybe you can't for medical reasons, at which stage you'll just cop the pity. Mothers on the other hand are excused for looking a little disheveled because they're so busy sacrificing themselves to rear their children. Well actually no, that isn't acceptable these days either. There are no excuses for not looking like a yummy mummy while frazzled and on no sleep. Comfy clothes and no makeup although understandable are seen as the result of selflessness and martyrdom not a conscious choice made by a woman who wants to focus on something other than her own vanity. 

The final stage is the crone. Yes you can have grey hair and be a nanna (which of course means you have procreated already and your children have now procreated too), but don't expect to be taken seriously unless you're Helen Mirren. You're just the nut bag buying Depends and chuckling to herself at Aldi.

A man can move smoothly from his wild teen years, into fatherhood or bachelorhood (it's not really questioned when men decide not to have children) and grey old age without anyone batting a judgey eye.

Well I reckon I can too. I reckon I'm all three of the categories imposed on me by society and everything in between. I'm a maiden; I'm young at heart, I'm relevant, I'm fit and healthy, I can be sexy and desirable. I'm not a virgin or a whore (not that being either is shameful in any way), but I'm a sexual being. I'm a mother - obviously. I'm a crone; wise, grey, jaded, experienced. Up yours society. Heaps of women are reclaiming their right to go grey gracefully.

I'm tired of colouring my hair right now. That is not to say that I'll never do it again or won't experiment with wild colours again, but right now I want to own and love my grey hair. Mind you I have a packet dye in the bathroom waiting for me and I have a wedding coming up, which is usually the type of occasion that I use as a marker for when to touch up my hair colour. I am strongly fighting the urge to give in this time.