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Mar. 30th, 2003 06:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
katallisonA thing I like about LJ: getting up at six, powering up the computer, checking the Friends page, and discovering at least twenty updates since I shut down and toppled into bed around ten the previous night. I picture all of you typing away through the night, (anxiously, cheerfully, drunkenly), while I've been sleeping, like the elves in the bakery ads of my childhood.
Yesterday was odd. I spent some time attempting, in an update, to sketch out the progress of the sudden plummet into depression, the swoop back up to good cheer, both equally inexplicable. I do know that one thing that cheered was the sudden whim to go get my hair cut--almost three inches chopped off the bottom--after which I went home and re-colored it. I am especially cheered that the color turned out not at all what I'd expected; it's now a *very* dark brown, almost black, with odd coppery/purpley glints.
My stepmother will be dismayed; she's fond of retailing the received wisdom that women Of A Certain Age should never color their hair too dark, as it makes them look older. To which I say, what the hell, I *am* older, I'm going to have fun with it. And then this makes me remember my old neighbor Vera, who had no truck with any received wisdom about the necessity for restrained decorous behavior on the part of aged females.
When I lived in Santa Cruz, back in the late 70s, S. and I had the good fortune to find a big rambling ramshackle house for rent, near downtown and near the ocean. It had behind it a large paved area, around which were ringed a half-dozen tiny cottages. I imagine that back in the 30s or 40s, the whole complex was built so that the owners of the big house could rent out the cottages to summer vacationers, by the week or for the season. But they'd long since been converted to year-round rentals, and were inhabited by the damndest rag-tag assortment of humanity. Since S. and I were renters just as the cottagers were, we had no formal responsibility for them, and most of them were independent souls, though friendly enough; but then there was Vera.
I never knew exactly how old she was--certainly in her late seventies. She was coy about her age, though. She lived alone, in her tiny cottage that was jammed full of knickknacks and photos and always had the heat turned up to stifling levels and smelled like old shoes and mildew.
She was no recluse; every morning she would rise, attire herself, and sally forth on a series of little strolls around the neighborhood. She was tottery, not just because of age, but because she insisted on wearing spike heels (usually in some garish shade of cracked patent leather; sometimes suede go-go boots, slightly stained). Moving up from the boots, she would wear: brightly-colored stockings (usually snagged and holey); a very short skirt, to show off her legs (still damn good); a flimsy top of some sort, with a lumpy sweater (also usually stained) wrapped around it for warmth; a heavy coat of makeup on her face, always (half-inch swathes of kohl eyeliner, thick mascara, scarlet lipstick that swerved wildly outside the lipline). And on her head she always had the most astonishing wig--teased and pouffed, standing out at least six inches from her skull, almost felted in its density and tangledness. It looked rather like a Madame Pompadour wig, except it was coal-black, and it was usually a bit askew on her head. (She often had a jaunty little hat, too, skewered onto the wig.)
She loved to buttonhole anyone within view, while on these sorties, and talk about her past life as a chorus girl in Hollywood--the parties she'd been to, the boyfriends she'd had. Since she trusted me, she'd take me back into her cottage, and show me mementos--old newspaper clippings, and photos of her swains (smooth-faced young men with their hair sleeked back and snazzy suits).
She'd also press-gang me into helping her with little chores--"Oh, hey, kid [she called everyone "kid"], could you run to 7-11 and pick me up a can of soup?" "Kid, old Vera needs a hand with something, could you come in here for a minute?" I remember I always needed to change her lightbulbs for her; she was terrified of electricity and convinced that changing bulbs could shock a person to death. ("Are you *sure* you're OK there, kid? Be careful!")
She seemed, or acted, terrified of many things in this brave new world of the 70s, which may have simply been the residue of a lifetime of assuming the facade of feminine helplessness. It puzzled me at the time, because certainly she was an immensely gutsy person to live on as she did, alone and frail, with no family or intimates. She was very poor, I think, but always had a new outfit for the change of seasons.
God, I haven't thought of her in a long time, and since that was over twenty years ago, she's certainly dead by now. I wonder where she's buried, and who took charge of burying her. I wonder what became of all her knickknacks and photos. The wig, I'm sure, was just tossed out, but when I look at my almost-black hair in the mirror, I remember it, and do a little fist-pump in defiance of age.
Yesterday was odd. I spent some time attempting, in an update, to sketch out the progress of the sudden plummet into depression, the swoop back up to good cheer, both equally inexplicable. I do know that one thing that cheered was the sudden whim to go get my hair cut--almost three inches chopped off the bottom--after which I went home and re-colored it. I am especially cheered that the color turned out not at all what I'd expected; it's now a *very* dark brown, almost black, with odd coppery/purpley glints.
My stepmother will be dismayed; she's fond of retailing the received wisdom that women Of A Certain Age should never color their hair too dark, as it makes them look older. To which I say, what the hell, I *am* older, I'm going to have fun with it. And then this makes me remember my old neighbor Vera, who had no truck with any received wisdom about the necessity for restrained decorous behavior on the part of aged females.
When I lived in Santa Cruz, back in the late 70s, S. and I had the good fortune to find a big rambling ramshackle house for rent, near downtown and near the ocean. It had behind it a large paved area, around which were ringed a half-dozen tiny cottages. I imagine that back in the 30s or 40s, the whole complex was built so that the owners of the big house could rent out the cottages to summer vacationers, by the week or for the season. But they'd long since been converted to year-round rentals, and were inhabited by the damndest rag-tag assortment of humanity. Since S. and I were renters just as the cottagers were, we had no formal responsibility for them, and most of them were independent souls, though friendly enough; but then there was Vera.
I never knew exactly how old she was--certainly in her late seventies. She was coy about her age, though. She lived alone, in her tiny cottage that was jammed full of knickknacks and photos and always had the heat turned up to stifling levels and smelled like old shoes and mildew.
She was no recluse; every morning she would rise, attire herself, and sally forth on a series of little strolls around the neighborhood. She was tottery, not just because of age, but because she insisted on wearing spike heels (usually in some garish shade of cracked patent leather; sometimes suede go-go boots, slightly stained). Moving up from the boots, she would wear: brightly-colored stockings (usually snagged and holey); a very short skirt, to show off her legs (still damn good); a flimsy top of some sort, with a lumpy sweater (also usually stained) wrapped around it for warmth; a heavy coat of makeup on her face, always (half-inch swathes of kohl eyeliner, thick mascara, scarlet lipstick that swerved wildly outside the lipline). And on her head she always had the most astonishing wig--teased and pouffed, standing out at least six inches from her skull, almost felted in its density and tangledness. It looked rather like a Madame Pompadour wig, except it was coal-black, and it was usually a bit askew on her head. (She often had a jaunty little hat, too, skewered onto the wig.)
She loved to buttonhole anyone within view, while on these sorties, and talk about her past life as a chorus girl in Hollywood--the parties she'd been to, the boyfriends she'd had. Since she trusted me, she'd take me back into her cottage, and show me mementos--old newspaper clippings, and photos of her swains (smooth-faced young men with their hair sleeked back and snazzy suits).
She'd also press-gang me into helping her with little chores--"Oh, hey, kid [she called everyone "kid"], could you run to 7-11 and pick me up a can of soup?" "Kid, old Vera needs a hand with something, could you come in here for a minute?" I remember I always needed to change her lightbulbs for her; she was terrified of electricity and convinced that changing bulbs could shock a person to death. ("Are you *sure* you're OK there, kid? Be careful!")
She seemed, or acted, terrified of many things in this brave new world of the 70s, which may have simply been the residue of a lifetime of assuming the facade of feminine helplessness. It puzzled me at the time, because certainly she was an immensely gutsy person to live on as she did, alone and frail, with no family or intimates. She was very poor, I think, but always had a new outfit for the change of seasons.
God, I haven't thought of her in a long time, and since that was over twenty years ago, she's certainly dead by now. I wonder where she's buried, and who took charge of burying her. I wonder what became of all her knickknacks and photos. The wig, I'm sure, was just tossed out, but when I look at my almost-black hair in the mirror, I remember it, and do a little fist-pump in defiance of age.