Blinvisible
Yesterday I was out shopping with one of my best friends. I don’t do that very often, mostly I shop for clothing alone. But for some reason yesterday it seemed like a fun thing to do, and it really was. We were going through the sale rack at Banana Republic and we both remarked at how we never wear anything sparkly. It reminded me of something I’ve been thinking a lot about recently.
I realize, after decades of doing it unconsciously, that I have spent an awful lot of time trying to be invisible. Less visible. Smaller. Inconspicuous. Visually inconsequential.
It occurred to me after the last time I coloured my hair. I’ve been doing that for six years now. I really thought I never would when I was younger, but my hair went brown around the time I turned thirty and it took me several years to come to terms with the fact that I will never look in the mirror and see anything but a redhead — the outside might as well match the inside. This last time, my colourist (no one else has ever dyed my hair, only Marc — when I couldn’t afford him, I just didn’t do it) brought me a new book of colours and we picked one together. It is really bright and shiny and deeply red. It makes me obvious.
And I don’t know exactly what to do about that. From a very young age, I refused to wear anything with logos, I rarely wore shirts with writing or pictures on them, I don’t particuarly wear makeup even at 39.9 years of age — I didn’t want people to LOOK at me. I think it’s partly because I had massive breasts at, you know, TWELVE, which wasn’t easy, but I can’t blame it entirely on that.
I could blame people, or myself, or society. And all of these had a hand in the desire to disappear. Old men leering at my cleavage in the mall when I was underage. Beautiful people upon whom I had crushes treating me less than kindly (not that this has changed all that much). Me, not knowing what I was or what I looked like.
But for the first time, right now, on the cusp of 40, I’m consciously nursing a desire to be seen. After Banana Republic, my friend and I were in a washroom and I looked at myself in the mirror — bright red hair, polka-dot dress, manageable but still pretty significant cleavage — and I felt cuter than maybe ever before in my life! I wondered aloud to my friend, what if I’d looked (felt) this good in my twenties?
I’ll never know. And I don’t know how long it will last. And I don’t know how it will steer my life, if it changes anything at all. I just know I am not interested in disappearing anymore, not for me, not for anyone.
Guess you’ll see me around.
