YOU CAN’T TRUST YOUR MIRROR

I have always felt that the mirror takes advantage of our gullibility. For instance, when I pass a mirror, I see a middle-aged blonde woman, who at one time, if not exactly pretty, is at least interesting.

The word ‘interesting’ is interesting in itself. It’s a word people often use to comment on something, rather than telling them what they really think. If they don’t want to insult the artist’s latest effort, which they hate, it seems kinder to tell them it’s interesting.

Some years ago while we were at a family gathering, while watching a cousin across the room, a relative said “You’re not attractive, and I’m not attractive, but she’s attractive. To show that I don’t hold grudges, I am still speaking to her.

But back to the mirror, I was shocked to find from a photograph, that my hair is silver! Everyone else had told me it was, but I chose to believe my mirror. In the 70’s, when hippie clothes were in style, I bought a long denim dress, which I thought was quite cool. But when I saw a photograph of myself wearing it, I looked just like a mushroom in a long blue dress. The mirror had lied once more.

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I don’t obsess about my clothes, but I must confess that I do have a fixation about my hair. Along with so many other things that youth steals, I truly miss having good hair. Throughout the years I have invested in numerous wigs and hairpieces in a variety of colors, and it has always been fun. I was greeted by a fairly close acquaintance once at a large dinner party while I was wearing a very cute wig, and she asked to be introduced. What is true is that I am older than I look, and the hair on my head is exactly where it should be given the hard life I’ve given it.

At one time or another, I have been a blonde, had various shades of brunette, or a combination of the two, and for one luau we gave, it even became black. Later instead of actually dying it, I bought a black wig. This was after seeing the movie “Chicago” with Katherine Zeta-Jones dancing her way through killing her husband.

I was astonished to discover that the nice woman who cuts my hair, is wearing a wig! You just never know.

I always wanted to have red hair, since so many people in my family have it, but the only time mine became red was an accident. I gave myself a home perm, and instead of following directions and waiting a certain amount of time, I put some brown coloring on it. It immediately bunched up, became brilliant red, and looked exactly like a Brillo pad, or Harpo Marx in drag.

It would have been OK except that a widower friend of ours brought a new girlfriend to dinner that night to introduce us. She was a pretty and much-younger natural redhead with long flowing curls she had a habit of tossing around during dinner. Worse that that, she arrived accompanied by an unannounced Schnauzer dog, who snarled at my two dogs, a German Shepherd and a large Dobermann, who did not snarl in return. It was not a happy occasion. However, it did put the lie to the old saying that people look like their dogs because she did not look at all like a Schnauzer. And they did not marry.

So what I needed to tell you is not to believe anything your mirror or your friends tell you about your hair. If you think you are a willowy 5″8″, and blonde, then you are, and in the real scheme of things, why does it matter anyway? It’s OK to believe whatever you wish.

A PAEAN TO THE LOWLY FOOT

I know you probably don’t want to think about it, but that appendage at the end of your leg has become big business, both for the fashion and the medical industry.

Jimmy Choo, Ferragamo and Dr. Scholl are coining big bucks off those twinkle toes. From classy six-inch heels to corn plasters, we tender a lot of our hard-earned cash to heal and enhance our feet.

After the first inspection of the baby toes to ensure that all ten are present, we tickle them, play “this little piggy”, and then forget about them, leaving them to fend for themselves.

During our young adulthood, we reach a comforting concinnity with our feet, annointing them, adorning the toes not only with polish, but with tiny rings, hoping they will reach the same level of beauty as the hands. We read phrases such as “her graceful white hands, long tapering fingers, etc.” But your never read such accolades given to the foot. Feet are crammed into too-tight shoes, sloppy flip-flops and expensive athletic shoes and expected to thrive and remain beautiful. Instead, they go their own way.

In their beauty period, while revelling in the toeless barefoot sandal, we carefully trim and clip the toe nails, but when the mature arms can’t quite reach them and older eyes can’t see them we must pay someone to look at those long-gone cute feet and cut the thickened unpolished toenails. I’m not there yet, but I can see it coming some day and it isn’t a pleasant prospect.

Companies such as Dr. Scholl’s supply a myriad of aids for the tired and aching feet. There are supports for flat feet, hammer toes, corns and bunions, toe spacers and even “dropped foot” (although I can’t imagine where they go if you drop them.) Without these palliative aids, bad feet can cause a misalighnment of the spine and other unpleasant problems, not the least of which is having to resort to ugly clunky shoes, canes and walking sticks.

Yes, we take our feet for granted, but try walking around without them.