I used to see her getting on the #24 bus in San Francisco. Coming up the little stairway she would emerge in stages: first the big blond wig, the heavily made up face, followed by a tight, low-cut blouse and miniskirt, the whole structure tottering on shiny red stilettos. Smiling brightly at the other passengers, she’d ease herself into one of the front seats. You might draw a few conclusions about this woman but they would all have to be juggled with the fact that she was, by my estimation, about 80 years old.
Nobody spoke to her, as I recall. There may have been a few snickers or droll comments from other riders but after all, this was San Francisco where anything goes. My own thoughts were strictly judgmental. Why can’t she act her age? Who does she think she’s fooling, and doesn’t she realize how ridiculous she looks?
These questions occupied me as I rode the bus to my job at an adult day health center, where old people looked and acted as old people should. The clients I worked with were long past pretending, or too damaged to care. They were old and they knew it. But perhaps I’m being premature in my judgment; in my own case, do I feel like I’m over 50, or think I look as old as I do? Twenty five years from now, will my self-image be that of a proper old person?
I understand that women in our sexist society are under cruel pressure to look young, or at least as young as possible. For some of them, that means keeping the same hairstyle and color they had in their youth, using the same makeup (or just a lot more of it) even when it does more harm than good. But what they see in the mirror, or their mind’s eye, is the person they used to be—and they feel better for it.
My stepmother is one of those women. She visits her hairdresser every week for a shampoo and set, because she always did it and to stop now would probably feel to her like walking around naked in public. The same bright rouge and greenish-brown eye shadow haven’t changed in decades, even though the results call to mind a baked iguana with random fluorescent spots.
A total makeover and simpler hairstyle could actually improve my stepmother’s appearance, but I think that would be too difficult for her to accept. In her mind she is not almost 80, and doesn’t want to give up the illusion. So for the foreseeable future, Jeannie’s daughter in law will drive her to the weekly beauty appointments that, at least in my opinion, just waste money and time.
It’s a good thing someone more understanding than I is responsible for that particular task. If it came down to it, I can imagine refusing, letting her make her own arrangements and causing a huge rift. I’d be accused of being heartless, of not understanding—and the accusations, at least in this case, would be hard to refute.
