Labeled "Senior at 55"

On my 55th birthday, I realized I qualified for slogans such as "55 Saves Lives!" and "55-Alive!" I also met the minimum age requirements for ordering off the back page of restaurant menus and could choose balanced meal plans at prices attractive to those 55 and counting. And I was a viable candidate for housing developments built for those who choose to age (i.e., "Seniors").

Since then, I've learned my skin is no longer treated as a youthful complexion but "mature skin". And despite an impeccable driving record, I am on the fast track to driving school and a 10% reduction in car insurance premiums (but only if I pass the driving test).

I dread the thought of seeing advertisements - for the next 10, 20, or 30 years - popping up before my bifocal resistant eyes and telling me I need to erase my wrinkles, rediscover my upper lip, boost my buttocks, lift my bosom, tuck my tummy, control my bladder, improve my sex life and cut out the cheesecake (of the fatty-deposits-on-my-thighs variety). Surely, being on the receiving end of "old lady" jokes and greeting cards will become tedious - especially if I (God, brain and body willing) live for the number of years anticipated by actuaries, financial advisers, life insurance sales reps and those who create websites and ads targeting Boomers.

No offense, AARP, but I'm having a difficult time taking the aging process very seriously - especially when I see myself in the mirror.

When I look at my face in the mirror, I see some wrinkles and that age spot which nicely offsets my badges of adolescent angst (i.e., skin bumps, acne scars and the zit which erupted recently to remind me of how good I used to have it). And the hollows beneath my eyes? Possibly a function of menopausal insomnia and some dire form of nutritional deficiency.

Or perhaps, simply plain old genetics - Pop also had under-eye hollows but didn't suffer from menopause. Certainly, the "lean and haunted" look I see in my bathroom mirror at odd hours of the night brings to mind Carol Burnett's fabulous characterization of Scarlet O'Hara (an all-time comedy classic). And I do have moments when I believe I could be a celebrity stand-in for Gladys Ormphby, the dowdy spinster played by Ruth Buzzi on "Rowen & Martin's Laugh-in". Of course, being 5'8", I'll need to wait until my spine completes its old age compression before I can consider look-alike contests as a viable career option.

But as I study my reflection in the mirror, my eyes eventually drift upwards (beyond the nose) to wrinkle #11. I glance at forehead furrows that have stood the test of time since elementary school. And then I stop tracking the progression of my aging at the hairline and gaze, with a certain sense of awe and bemusement, at new hair growth rising up from my scalp.

My hair now grows in ways nature did not originally intend.

Despite having relatively straight hair most of my life and some obnoxious cowlicks that refused to hold a curl, new hair grows straight up. Upon achieving a length ranging from 1-3 inches, the new hair begins to curl and twist. At approximately 4 inches, the hair flattens out and begins to behave appropriately - adopting the hairstyle of a much younger human being.

However, when there is a slight wind, breeze from a ceiling vent, high humidity or static cling caused by the removal of a hat or sweatshirt - new hair growth begins to float upward and remains stationary at various angles to my head. Occasionally, a lengthier (older) hair will choose to launch itself from my head - without any provocation - to land on my nose, mouth or paste-covered toothbrush. And although I've tried conditioners, styling gel and a flattened palm moistened with tap water (combined with a vigorous downward swiping motion and the strong urge to apply spit), those shorter hairs continue to defy gravity by remaining boldly upright at 90-degree angles to my head.

Candidly, there are times when I get a bit discouraged when I look in the mirror and consider what 55 years on this earth has produced. But then I look at my hair and I grin. My hair condition (as in flotation, not softness or body) has often reduced me to tears and on more than one occasion - hysterics (as in laughter).

It's hard to remain serious when I see the residual effects of static cling and imagine myself in my corporate attire, attempting to make a good impression during a public speaking gig. Then watching the eyes of my audience travel from my presentation overheads to what's traveling over my head.

Shades of Alfalfa, I might as well toss my briefcase, take out my eyeliner, jot some freckles on my cheeks, and pass myself off as a former member of "Our Gang".

Short of using Super Glue to manage unruly new hair growth - the beacon of my aging - I'll probably have to depend on a sense of humor to see me through this evolutionary period known as "The Old Age". And like the dinosaurs before me, survive and thrive until that day when plague, pestilence, competition or worn out feet do me in. Hopefully I will have left behind a legacy of laughter and be remembered with fondness. And let my posthumously published 1 line obit read:

"Despite having a bad hair day, for an old gal, she wasn't half bad."