As JSlow struggles to banish the haunting image of her Halloween costume from her memory, I’m en-route to Portland to meet a new client.
Yesterday, while feverishly finishing up my work for today’s meeting, I had to deal with a harsh reality:
My roots were showing. A lot.
If said roots were blonde or black or brown, at best I’d look edgy, at worst a bit skanky.
Thanks to BeautyLand, I have products for such emergencies at the ready.
I work in advertising, which is a very young industry. Being the oldest in the room is not something to strive for.
Thanks to genetics, yoga and candy, I can pass for a less-old version of my middle-aged self.
When I embarked on my career, I was a vision in Ann Taylor shoulder-padded blazers, patent-leather pumps, necktie (I know, ridiculous) and briefcase. I wanted to be taken seriously. I wanted to climb that corporate ladder. I wanted to look, well, serious, older. And look, I sort of did:
And there lies the rub. When we are young, whether consiously or not, we make ourselves look older. But when we are old, we do whatever we can to make ourselves look younger.
I have no idea how my meeting will go today. But minus the grey, and plus these fierce Camilla Skovgaard boots, I have managed to kick some serious years to the curb.