Going Grey Gracefully: is it time to get off the hair dye hurdy-gurdy?

Have you given much thought to “going grey gracefully”? Since finding my first grey hair in my early twenties, I’ve been battling with the will-I-won’t-I question of going grey. On my wedding day, only three years ago, I wore my hair up and unashamedly let my silver threads shine through; yet when attending a few weddings as a guest since then, each time I’ve felt the need to hide my greys to preserve this illusion of being still in my twenties.

Just lately, I’ve noticed quite a few women who are, by all appearances, quite youthful…but whose true age was given away by an inch of regrowth. Each time I recoiled a little, thinking, yuck, I don’t want to end up being that woman. I knew I had to make the choice soon, before it became even harder to cease and desist; because once you colour your greys, the only way they’re going to become all grey again is to go cold-turkey and let them grow out.

Then I remembered catching up with a friend a few months ago, and being both surprised and delighted to see that her thick, dark hair was streaked with silver, and I asked her about it. Only a year or two older than I am, she had decided to stop colouring completely, and wore her hair in an elegant, natural style that complemented her casual-chic look. I was so impressed, and knew that if she could do it, so could I.

So I went online to do a bit of research on the topic, and it turns out that it is becoming de rigueur to go grey gracefully, albeit that this is more often the case for women in their forties and beyond. As I hunted through page after page of women much older than myself, I finally came upon this inspirational story of stunning fashion designer Maayan Zilberman, who embraced going grey at an earlier age than many others might. I am fortunate, in that I work in an industry which is perhaps more forgiving of a woman who chooses to adopt a more natural option. Also, I think there is more tolerance in the country than in the city; but, having said that, Maayan Zilberman couldn’t be a better model for anyone who thinks you can’t be grey, beautiful, and stylish in the fickle world of fashion.

So I think it’s time for me to start practising for becoming a “silver fox”, and embrace the reality of who I am, instead of prolonging the agony of pretense. And later, when I’ve turned completely silver, I can choose to have a bit of fun with some crazy colours once again.

I’d love to hear your thoughts about this – please do leave your comments below.

An E-type in the mirror

“Looks like we got a tail”, he said, motioning towards the rear view mirror with his eyes.

She leaned forward and took a steady look in her side mirror. “Mmhmm. That the E-type we saw back a-ways?”

“Yep.”

“Gonna try and shake him?”

“Nope.”

“Good”, she said, and took her camera from her bag, aiming it at the reflected Jag.

This photo was taken on one of only a few occasions where I’ve wished I had the benefit of my DSLR’s manual focus ring – holding the camera steady while trying to get the car in the mirror even vaguely in focus was an exercise in frustration.

La Petite Mort

Photograph by Kat Philcox Photography

I watched a lot of old movies when I was a kid, and just adored the graphic world of black and white cinematography; when I grew up, I wanted to look like those beautiful, remote, magnificent women. Then when I grew up, I realised that they don’t really exist, that they are a confection of the studio; still, I longed to be portrayed as a femme fatale at least once. My big opportunity was the photo shoot with Kat Philcox, and we worked with a black backdrop much of the time.

While I was putting together the photo book (see previous post), this photo led me to do a little creative writing, limited only by the amount of space on the page. Before I knew it, I had written a film noiresque scene, inspired by such movies as The Big Sleep. I picture “him” as a Private Investigator in the style of Humphrey Bogart’s Philip Marlowe.

 

LA PETITE MORT

He surveyed the room: signs of a struggle were evident, from the overturned boudoir chair, to the crooked lampshade, and a shattered vase of Stargazer lilies, strewn across the floor. Then there was the body of a girl, supine on a rug beside the bed.

Sniffing the air, he decoded the smell – a strangely intoxicating blend of Bourbon whiskey, sweat, and lilies, with a faint underlying odour of something bad. He shuddered – he hated the smell of lilies and the memories they brought flooding back.

Apprehensively, he walked towards her body, noting her disheveled clothing. When he saw her stillness, and her glazed eyes, he froze. “Get a grip”, he urged himself, looking away for a moment to refocus. Dropping to his knee, he put his ear close to her mouth, and heard her slow breath. So, not dead. Then…what? A seizure? Pondering this development, he slowly came to the realisation that she was under the spell of ‘the little death’. “Well that’s just swell”, he mumbled cynically, moving away to upright the chair and wait for her full recovery.

 

36: the perfect age of a woman

*Photographs by Kat Philcox Photography

A lot of photographers hide their shyness behind the camera, and are often quite unused to having their own picture taken – even if we may sometimes take self-portraits in the desire to record a version of ourselves with which we can be content. 

Since reaching my thirties, I have set milestones that I could look forward to. It may seem a little morbid, but so far these have related to amazing people who died at a particular age; I don’t know why, but the first milestone was 33, the age at which Jesus Christ is believed to have died.

Then as 33 turned, happily, to 34, I set my sights on 36: the age that Marilyn Monroe was when she died. At 35, I read that 36 was considered to be the perfect, golden, ageless age of a woman. With this in mind, I decided that when I was 36, I would pose nude for a photo shoot – something which the inimitable MM also did, only six weeks before her death.

Having agreed to be my photographer, in September 2012 close friend Kat of Kat Philcox Photography took me into her studio for a couple of hours, both of us somewhat apprehensive about this new experience. Like me, Kat is not very comfortable having her photo taken, so I knew she would understand my trepidation. After a few preparations were made, we began working on clothed shots until we were both comfortable enough for me to begin to shed my clothes. Most of the photos were taken without my glasses on – a rare experience, and one which turned out to be quite helpful: having Kat removed from my focus (and therefore my personal space, even when she was quite close) allowed me to be less inhibited. The shoot was an extraordinary experience, one which I was delighted to share with her.

My original vision was to have a collection reminiscent of classic Film Noir, and those surreally perfect images of the silver screen sirens.Although clients rarely have the opportunity to do so, Kat generously provided me with a disc of (largely) unedited photos so that I could edit them myself. As much as I had enjoyed seeing the “teaser” photos from the shoot, it was not until I began editing that I really felt connected to them – almost as though I had been the photographer of another subject – and I felt privileged to have this opportunity.

I am very pleased with how they turned out, and now have a visual reminder of this time of my life to look back upon in years to come. Initially unsure what to actually do with my photos – many of them are a little unsuited to being hung upon my walls! – I decided to make a book, using the free software from Blurb, which I have used several times in the past few years. The image above is from the front cover; the one below is on the back cover. Maybe sometime I’ll share what’s between the sheets!

Having turned 37 shortly after the shoot took place, it is time again to set my sights upon another milestone age – and to devise a way to commemorate it.

Car Panel Paintings: reflecting the landscape

Many photographers enjoy capturing reflected images; years ago, when I first got my 35mm SLR, my partner taught me to see reflections in street puddles, something which I had never actually registered despite being a user of shop windows for parking on the street. Since then, I have always noticed looking-glass puddles.

Then, when I got my first dark car, I started to notice how beautifully the paintwork reflected the landscape, and took a few shots over the years that way.

Yesterday, travelling back in my second dark car from seeing Cake play in Adelaide, we stopped to break the drive, and while I was ogling the lines of my car like a lovesick teen, I noticed she made a nice “panel painting”, so I went to work. 

And then I noticed the tree alongside had been carved by travellers, breaking their drive just as we had. Mister Magpie was scrounging around in the background.

And then I noticed my car alongside the tree, and my focus returned to her. Gawd, I’m so predictable.

Journey Lines in Ta Moko: traditional Maori tattoo art

While I’m on the subject of tattoos, recently My Good Man’s sister and her husband travelled to New Zealand where they celebrated their wedding anniversary by getting traditional Maori tattoos. The tattoos were designed and inked by Te Rangitu Netana, Maori Tattoo Artist of Ngapuhi, Ngati Wai and Te Arawa tribal descent, and while their tattoos are complementary, and similar in placement and general design, each tells their own very individual story, and embodies who they are and the journey they are on.

Skin Deep: street photography in Gawler

Street photography is an artform I really admire and enjoy, and follow a few blogs with really strong images, including Wim Van Gestel, A Walk With My Camera, Antonio Marques, Klara’s Street, and Spool by Spool. But I am such a coward when it comes to aiming even a small camera in someone’s direction.

When I was waiting for My Good Man in the main street of Gawler a couple of days ago, I spotted this lovely tattooed girl on a poster advertising “Skin Deep”, a Tattoo Club of Australia tattoo show, and knew she wouldn’t mind a bit if I took her photo.

 

Lord of My Heart: farewell to a grand love

A couple of months ago I wrote a post titled Night-time: interior with cat, which told of our previous adventure with snakebite; last week, we got to repeat that experience. Turns out, eight lives had already been used up, and this time the warrior did not live to die another day – or bite another snake. He died the day before my birthday.

Pugsley was one of those cats who people noticed: with his plush, smoky grey tabby fur, he was truly handsome; he had great self-assurance, once he got over his shyness of meeting people, and would often settle quickly into a puddle of fur on their lap with utter surrender, or present his belly for a bliss-inducing rub.

Once, just recently, he followed me all the way across the paddock to my parents’ house and back.

He was very smart, and there was a time when I taught him to sit for his dinner (though once dogs came into our family, I no longer felt the need for that!); he also learned to use our toilet. I invested a lot in him, and he gave me back so much more.

I remember how he disappeared once for two days; eventually we found him when we opened the garage door, and he strolled out, blinking in the sunlight.

Pugsley was the most irritating, frustrating, selfish, arrogant, companionable, chatty, loving, wonderful cat, with a larger-than-life personality. It’s early days still, and the spaces he has left in our home are often met with the sound of heartbreak.

This photo of him dates from around 2004, when I got my first SLR film camera, a manuall focus Canon T50 with fully automatic settings. He was around a year old, and this was taken in our home at night time. I still love this photo of him best of all. The most recent shot I took of him featured in this post.

Today I’m dedicating Coldplay’s song Green Eyes to this lord of my heart.

Honey you are a rock
Upon which I stand
And I come here to talk
I hope you understand

That green eyes
Yeah the spotlight, shines upon you
And how could anybody deny you

I came here with a load
And it feels so much lighter
Now I met you
And honey you should know
That I could never go on without you
Green eyes

Honey you are the sea

Waiting for Cake: how to hear your Cake and eat it too

Please click on the above photo to view the stage at full size.

When My Good Man and I first got together, we discovered we had a shared love for music by the alternative rock band, Cake. Anytime we went on a road trip, we would play our favourite Cake tunes on the stereo. We loved Cake, and loved sharing our love of Cake. We even said that if Cake ever came on tour to Australia, we would definitely go see them.

So when I recently discovered that they were, indeed, coming to Australia to play at Harvest Festival, I resigned myself to buying tickets to see a bunch of great artists (including some other favourites: Beck, The Dandy Warhols, and Ben Folds Five) play, just to get our piece of Cake. Awesome, right? Well…I am a strange creature who doesn’t care all that much for rock concerts, particularly when they go on and on and on and I just want to go home already. But just as I was midway through booking tickets online for Harvest, a friend pointed out that they would also be playing a side show in Adelaide on my birthday; naturally, I stopped what I was doing, and did the other thing instead.

Boy, am I glad I did.

They played at HQ, at the top end of West Terrace – which ironically is the only nightclub I have ever ventured into, almost twenty years ago when it was known as Heaven. Easily finding a park on Hindley Street (it being mid-week), we arrived in good time, and stood in line waiting for the doors to open. The atmosphere was relaxed and chatty; the girl in front turned to us and asked if we had already purchased tickets, as she had not; but had heard that tickets would be available at the door. We crossed our fingers for her.

HQ is an intimate venue, with the distance from the stage to the back being perhaps 40 metres, and with a few levels to make viewing the stage easy. I asked one of the security guys how many were in the crowd; he shrugged and said the door staff would know. MGM and I took guesses: he guessed 250; I guessed 300. But crowds are deceptive, and later on, Mr Security leaned over to me and said he just heard that the tally was around 385. So, not a big crowd, then.

Kicking off the first set with the defined guitar chords of Frank Sinatra, the crowd leapt instantly from expectant to wild. My grin lit my face as I turned to My Good Man with delight; we knew we were in for an amazing night, and so did everyone else.

The band was polished, relaxed, confident, and very easy to watch. They went about the business of entertainment without any show of strain or, well, showiness. John McCrae has a real knack for engaging the crowd, making the experience feel all the more personal. His vocals were pitch-perfect, as were the back-up harmonies; I was fascinated to finally see what a vibraslap – which contributes the unique rattling sound heard on many of their tracks – looks like; the smooth, measured crooning of the trumpet was an oft-spotlighted highlight. Though one of my criticisms of live music is the lack of musical perfection, that was never even once a problem for Cake. They were spot on.

The playlist went like this:

1. Frank Sinatra
2. Mexico
3. Love You Madly (our personal favourite: “…all the dishes rattle in the cupboard when the elephants arrive…”)
4. Wheels
5. Stick Shifts
6. Mustache Man (so appropriate for a Movember gig)
7. Bound Away
8. Sick of You: for which McCrae divided the room into right and left halves, with the right half singing “i-ii-iii want to fly away”, while the left half sang “I’m so sick of you, so sick of me, I don’t want to be with you”. That was a blast.

   INTERMISSION

9. (Something from their most recent album, but which I can’t identify!)
10. Sheep Go To Heaven (I bet the mouthy woman in the mosh pit was finally happy about that)
11. Ruby Sees All
12. Long Time
13. Rock ‘n’ Roll Lifestyle
    …and then they gave away a potted mandarin tree to a chap named Jack, for correctly guessing the tree’s species, with the proviso that he send in photos of the tree as it grows over the next thirty years. Nice one, Jack.
14. Italian Leather Sofa
15. Never There

And that was The End.

Did they do an encore?? Folks, you know they did.

1. They played not one song:  Short Skirt, Long Jacket;
2. not two:  It’s Coming Down;
3. but three (can you guess what they finished with? Of course you can):  The Distance, which made the enthusiastic bloke on our right pretty happy.

And then we went home, sated and filled with the buoyancy that only a great live band seen on one’s birthday can give.
I am a happy woman indeed.

Balmoral Show & Shine: random body parts