A Healthy Beard, Hairy Udders, and Other Goat-Like Symptoms of The Aging Process

She is one of those ladies who is more beautiful at sixty than she could possibly have been at twenty. (how I hope someone says that about me someday)!" ― Mary Ann Shaffer

Lately, I have been comparing myself to my goats and their quirky personalities. As of late, I have been feeling like I imagine Mama Boo to feel. Mama Boo is one of the older goats in our herd. She is the mama of my Sweet Baboo and the sweetest, nicest lady I have yet to encounter. Mama Boo has developed a more mature appearance. She has grown quite an impressive beard, her udders are exceptionally hairy, and she has taken on the appearance of a thin, in-milk dairy goat. She is still lovely; she is just beautiful in an older way. She has to hold her position in the herd with some steely aggression and quiet determination. I am not like Mama Boo in the sense that I have a beard, hairy udders, and I'm definitely not super thin, but she is getting older and has to stand her ground in order not to be overlooked or undermined. She puts the younger ones in their place without being too harsh and feels she has to prove her worth.

The fact of the matter is, I am getting older, whether I like it or not. It matters not that my mind still feels like it's 29. It matters not that my sense of humor falls somewhere around a sophisticated 12…if there is such a thing. It does not matter that I want to look and feel like I did when I was 25, but the realization is that I just don't. The quandary I have been facing for almost two years is how I will go about this aging process. Will I go gracefully and accept each year and the changes it brings with fortitude and strength, or will I fight this unseen and, let's face it, unfair enemy tooth and nail with dyes, acids, and scalpels?  

My Bibbed Wonder encourages me to age naturally and gracefully. He says he looks forward to us growing old together. He tells me he thinks my graying hair is beautiful and my wrinkles are laugh lines that prove he is doing his job of making me happy. (He wasn't so concerned about my laugh lines when he cut down my tree, was he?) …again, I am beating that poor horse and digressing. However, what The Bibbed Wonder fails to point out is that he is eight years my junior. He will always be eight years my junior, and I will always be eight years his senior, and we will never truly grow old together because I will always be almost a decade older than he. I appreciate his efforts, though. 

Now, a peek into my psyche. My dad was a very handsome man. His good looks often helped to get him into a lot of trouble. I look very much like my dad and great-grandmother, and my dad had high expectations for my appearance. There was a lot of value placed upon image, beauty, and weight. My dad advised me when I married Eric: "You've got yourself a young one. If you want to keep him, don't let yourself go." You see, my Bibbed Wonder was a mere pup of 22 when we married, and I was a cougar of 30. I laugh and tell others I was a cougar before it was cool. Yep, trendsetter, that is me. However, back to my psyche and my dad: Um, yeah, that could mess with one's head and self-esteem if allowed to do so. 

Fortunately, I am more evolved and have had years of working on self-growth and self-esteem and a little sprinkling of therapy thrown in for good measure, spoken with completely false bravado. Without the pressure of family expectations thrown in, the societal pressure to remain young and fit and the picture of youth is pretty heavy to carry around as well. There are injections to fill in lines, there are food poisoning by-products to paralyze your facial muscles, and there are silicones and saline to plump, pump, and perk your sagging features. I will be honest: if I were with someone more like my father and less like my Bibbed Wonder, I would probably dabble in all the above…probably. I am honest enough to admit that there is and probably always will be a shallow, vain side of me that wants to look young and attractive. However, when armed with information, one can make educated decisions about what one puts into and onto one's body. As of now, I choose not to inject myself with such advances. The side effects and potential damage are not worth the results. 

However, my greying hair is the real battle I have been fighting, which is less invasive but still pretty shallow. My hair is turning silvery white all around the front, and the back remains dark, a more faded version of my original dark, but still dark. I have colored my hair and fought the greys for many years…like since my 20s. In the last two years, my greys have become more prominent and more challenging to cover. I have been contemplating allowing my hair to go natural but have been unsure about it. Last fall, I decided I would smoothly transition to grey or white…really just hair that lacks pigment. Let me educate you, dear reader, there is no smooth transition to go from colored hair to natural hair and not look like a cartoon character, a Disney villain, or just some poor shmuck who needs a good stylist. Painful, absolutely freaking painful it was! I went really, really blonde, and my hair dried and broke off. I went warmer and gentler blonde, which turned brassy by week three. Then I went to, "Daughter had surgery, and she takes precedence, stay-at-home order, and your stylist is not permitted to practice; let's throw in baby goat season when there is no time to do anything but wash off the smell of poo, afterbirth, and milk, tricolor white, blonde, dark." It's not an attractive look, trust me. However, it lessened the pain of the process and the decision to go au natural. I contemplated cutting off all my hair and starting over, but let's be honest, I have a big, fat Tonkin head, and it's not a look and feel I can pull off. 

My badass stylist and friend, Mandi, made the trip to the farm and worked her magic…a bit. She trimmed, highlighted the whites, darkened the blondes to a more natural brown, put on a blue toner for brassiness, and declared battle victory over the aging process. Meanwhile, her smart-ass 14-year-old son informed me, "I look hot for an old lady." I'm not sure if I'm completely grossed out by a 14-year-old boy dubbing me as hot, irritated that he called me old, or disturbed that I'm even contemplating what came out of his foul little mouth. I should have just gone with my knee-jerk reaction and purple-nurpled him. 

The other night, I was looking at hair color on Pinterest… it's what I do when I'm not making soap…and I informed my bib-wearing buddy that I think I will color my hair again. It was a moment of weakness, and the color and style of the 20-something modeling looked hella cute. Eric's response was exasperation and irritation, "Seriously, after all we've been through, you're thinking of coloring it?" I laughed at his response. However, after pondering his words, it hit me with an impactful weight: we are in this together. My struggles are his struggles; whether he likes it or not, he is an active participant in my real life or self-imposed issues. His meaningful and honest response is enough to soothe the ugly monster of insecurity and self-doubt. I guess I can stop feeling like Mama Boo because, with Eric, I do not have to prove my self-worth. It's a bit of a comfort to know that no matter what my size, my hair color, or how many birthday candles are on my birthday cake (which I will eat with unbridled enjoyment), he thinks I rock, and his opinion is the only one that matters, except my own of course. Now, when the day arrives that I have grown a healthy beard and hairy udders, medical hair removal is not off the table. However, until then, I will just do what I try to do best: be me. 

As always, stay safe, stay smart, try to be good at being yourself, and keep up the hand washing until this passes. Even if it passes, it's never acceptable not to wash your hands. Seriously, people.