Wig Out

Following the recent haircut, the old husband - we've been together since the eighties - has a new-found interest in me. It is the new year, so initially I thought he'd made a resolution: pay more attention to Lucy. He has never been big on flattery or commenting on my appearance. This was a good thing, most of the time. As the years went by, however, I began to wish that on occasion he'd notice, just a bit.

Once we went out to dinner with my best friend, Chrystal, and her old college friend, Ted, a guy from Maine. I had plastered on the make-up and added the long earrings in an effort to dress myself up. At dinner, Ted bluntly referred to me as "beautiful," and said he'd date me, if I weren't married. The husband made nary a sound. I hardly think he noticed. Maybe he was admiring the artwork or picking his teeth. I dunno.

Other times, when I'm dressed up, or the bags under my eyes are a little less blue, I'll tell him "I look good today." He might look up from the paper - I am not making this up - and nod, or jokingly smile, and say "really?" We are actually quite happy together, but his indifference to the superficial is somewhat humbling on occasion. I know it's shallow, but I'm not living in a cave here! It's especially grim on those days when I look like a Nyquil ad - snuffling around the house with red-rimmed nostrils - and he inevitably says "lookin' good, babe." Aaarg. Who gives a shit what one's partner thinks about one's face, anyway? I do, okay? I can't help it - it's like eating meat. I don't need it constantly, but on occasion, it's uniquely tasty.

Chrystal's theory is that I am suddenly desirable because of the Gloria Wig Effect. Remember? The episode on "All in the Family" when Meathead, aka Rob Reiner, gets all heated because Gloria (Sally Struthers) dons a brunette wig? She thinks it'll be fun, and then as they begin to make out and flail all over the bedcover, she pulls off the wig and places it next to the bed. He's like "no, baby, put it back on," and she puts it back on a few times for him. Suddenly she realizes that he's all gaga because he's fantasizing about banging another woman. She screams and rants and leaves, sobbing as she tells him he's cheating on her with the wig. He loves the wig more than his own beloved blonde wife!

Okay, perhaps the husband, my husband, does not have full-fledged GWE (Gloria's Wig Effect), but I am still suspicious. He refuses to tell me which of his friends may have tipped him off that despite how hard we work during the week, treating me like a benign roommate isn't altogether satisfactory, in the long run. Maybe he had an epiphany: my wife is a phenomenal human being. No! My wife is more attractive than ever. Maybe: my wife is more interested in the goddamn computer than me, so I better grab her tit before she completely loses interest. Hmmm.

Feminism & Hair

I wrote about hair before, but now I approach the subject with newly exposed eyes, as I have just had my long hair shorn off. Not completely, but enough to move from the long hair category to the short hair category. The reason I am writing about it - apart from the shallow fact that it is of interest when one changes one's appearance - is that I have had a time-warpish experience since the new do. People around me are commenting on my appearance. The word "glamorous" has been used. Yesterday, "sexy," "wow," and other flattering exclamations floated by, like a hot-fudge sundae suddenly presenting itself on an otherwise bleak and dusty day.

Maybe because I work in a school, it reminded me of high school: the attention, the compliments, the utter fear of not looking good enough at every moment. One time my boyfriend showed up for a date and told me my neck was dirty. How disgusting. How mortifying. It was dried-gray-skin dirt that I hadn't noticed. So much for the shower, the hour I'd spent on the face, the ass in the pants, the hair. I scuttled my unattractive self into the bathroom. I could barely see what he meant, scrambling my eyes over as far as they could go, my head turned askew to scan the mildewed neck in the mirror. I scrubbed at my skin with a rough wash cloth and soap. We headed out to dinner and all night, I queried him. Or maybe I started to, but instead I thought about it obsessively. I can't remember. I was so anxious about my repulsive neck, that I was oblivious to whatever else happened.

How is this related to feminism? I thought I finally didn't care as much about my appearance. As I write this, I know I really don't. I thought that other peoples' opinions of my appearance didn't matter as much. And they don't. But there is still a certain satisfaction in getting the attention, and a crumbling in my gut as the inevitable looms somewhere ahead of me. Tomorrow, next week, two weeks, I'll have to go back to thinking about my actual life and what I truly feel. I'll have to think about reality, instead of giggling with a friend about how cute I am. In high school, I hid my depression behind a pretty face and a preoccupation with dieting. My life was an utter cliche. Nevertheless, it felt unique, hidden, and embarrassing at the time. It felt energizing to get the attention and unnerving not to.

My life is good now, but if I am so giddy that I am breezing around thinking about a haircut, I suspect that I'm in for the same old news. It's only a face.

Okay, You Can Comment Now!

Apologies, readers! Apparently, there are a few of you out there. I discovered that my settings were not allowing for comments and that problem has been rectified. So please feel free to say whatever you would like to say, as that is that is the idea, right? One person said she feared her responses were too lady-like. Hardly! Prim is acceptable. I always hated the idea of the anti-clique clique, or the pretentious way we often say other people are pretentious. Have I done that? I hope not. All are welcome to write from the heart, the kidney, the middle finger, or the elegant hand, as the case may be.

Sex, Hell & Marriage

I was just at feministing, reading responses to the inevitable article about "slut feminism." I guess this term is meant to offend me, a mother who has no problem with the idea of pre-marital sex? Slut feminism seems laughable to me. It could be re-cast as a good thing: 'take back' the language, and feel good about the wild time you had last night! Is there a reason that women shouldn't enjoy sex? Unless, of course, the sex itself is not that good? Monique Stuart wrote a column in the Washington Post - oh crap, I think I'm supposed to link to that - about naughty college girls. She doesn't mention birth control, STDs, or pregnancy. But, surprise! She does mention her strain to resist judgment. Of course she doesn't. She judges the gals she sees wearing the same clothes as last night, their make-up haughtily smudged. I suppose they are going to hell. But her idea of hell may be a lot of sex. What a dreary life she must lead.

Why oh why? Sex is so complicated, really. For me, the idea is absolutely wonderful, and my husband happens to have some sort of crazy hand skills. But then I am kind of unrealistic like let's-be-with-the-kids-walk-the-dog-and-then-what. I'll tell you what. It's hard to care! For some married people, or partnered people, it is a bizarre pattern of connection and disconnection, of nostalgia and it's better than ever. Let me be less cryptic: for me - I cannot speak for anyone else - it keeps getting better as my body seems to be capable of feeling more and better; but it also sort of fades, as I am tired or distracted. When I hear from friends who have newer relationships, it sounds foreign. Getting used to someone new? Being open about this or that? I am still, after many years married, not very good at saying what I like. I'm guessing this is true for other women, but what do I know? New Year's Resolution: talk more with partner about sex. Realistic Resolution: go out more with partner, and then have more sex. Fake Blog Resolution: take on viagra advertising and the like, make some money, and also have sex.