Into the Ether
I had my hair streaked today. I’d meant to take my digital camera to the hairdresser and ask Darren to photograph the process. A picture of me with my head in a mass of silver foil parcels would be of undoubted interest to bloggers worldwide. But I forgot it – the camera. Sitting under Fourth Floor’s hair cooker looking like – an accurate cliché – nothing on earth (see Jupiter Moon), the two things seemed related – having my hair streaked and forgetting the camera.
For I now forget a great deal. It’s because of my age, which I’m embarrassed to reveal. Forgetting’s become a feature of each day. It’s got worse than not remembering names, faces, any of the characters in Dickens’s novels, the capital of Kazakhstan*, or why I’ve opened the fridge door… I now don’t remember that I’ve forgotten what I’ve forgotten.
I suppose it will get worse. Soon I won’t remember where the fridge is. I’ll open the clothes cupboard and wonder where I’ve put the cheese. I suspect the very old have a sense of bewilderment about where they’ve left themselves.
I’m joining them. Even now I can’t quite find me. There was a time when it consoled me to remember the names of lovers. Recollections came tumbling back, Proustian evocations of place and season, sights and time. Now I can’t remember if I’ve ever had a relationship with anyone. I don’t think I have. Except with Roley of course.
Which takes me to the streaks in my hair. They are there to deceive myself. For I’m invisible when out, blonde or grey. If a passer-by’s looking at me it’s because I’ve forgotten some essential item of clothing, or am talking too loudly to myself. But I still want to look in the mirror and see what I once was, even though I can’t remember when or what that might have been. I know I weighed a stone less – then or once - had dark hair, ran up the stairs two at a time, but if that past self came running to meet me would I recognise her whoever she was and from wherever she came. I don’t think so. Just a strange visceral sense of having met that person somewhere. Once.
That picture of me on the About page – it was taken some years ago. I’ve never liked it as a photograph. I don’t think I ever looked like that. I looked more… well…. whatever, of course. Now, no picture of me reflects who I am. It’s the photographers, you know, and the cameras they use. They do no justice to the streaks in my hair – which were very expensive - £85 for a quarter of a head.
* Astana is the capital of Kazakhstan. It was formerly called Akmola (also Aqmola) or even Akmolinski. Who needs a brain when they’ve got Google.
July 19th, 2007 at 12:07 am
I’m not sure forgetting things necessarily has anything to do with age. Even at my age (36) I go upstairs to get something, forget what it was, go downstairs, remember and have to go back up again to get it. I also forget what I’m talking about halfway through a sentence and can’t remember the names of things.
The only part of getting older that I fear is becoming incapacitated physically or mentally. (If you’re aware you forget things sometimes I reckon you’re ok.)
Maybe I’m being naive but I see ageing as a fascinating process. I’m noticing gradual changes in my face and body as time goes on. We should be intrigued by the wonders of our bodies, not frightened. I know this is easier said than done given the youth obsessed culture we live in. However being young means having to be the size of a Twiglet and staying ‘young’ involves being injected with face freezing poison so who needs it?
Keeping an interest in the world, being open to new ideas, music and food, taking opportunities to learn and travel, challenging ourselves in as many ways as possible - these will keep us young even as our bodies age.