The Great Fallout of Ott-twelve (Ott sounds better and more serious than Twenty)

I'd like to say a few words about hair. Because I've been obsessed with it lately and I think there's some deep-rooted reason why. See, I think I recently lost a gig because of my hair. No--not follicle discrimination like blond vs brunette--and not really a job-- more of an assignment. But before I  get to that--let me begin at the beginning, which also feels like the end.

For about a year I've been noticing the more-than-usual clumps of hair in the shower, on the floor, in my hairbrush. There's no question--my hair is falling out. And not because I have some rare, talk-show-attention-getting disease--no. I guess it's because I'm getting old. Google's top search results pretty much says women my age lose hair because of hormones. But what Google doesn't say--and Lynn wants to know is--when does this shit stop? I mean really. Enough already. There isn't enough, already.

Before the Fallout

Men like long, flowing, full hair. Not twelve strands pulled together to form a noodle-like ponytail. I'm losing so much--if you lift up what's left around my forehead--you'll see the holes. Aren't MEN supposed to deal with holes as they age? (don't answer that) Male pattern baldness? What kind of pattern is this? Except some wicked, F'ed up joke being played by someone upstairs on women my age everywhere. Especially SINGLE women my age. I mean, come on God--leave something up there? Someone's still gotta find me attractive? (And even though I'm into Yoga, I'd prefer they not be part of the Hare Krishna movement.)

It's stressing me out. And my hairdresser says stress makes you lose your hair too. Another vicious circle. Hormones. Stress. Fallout. Repeat. Make it stop please. I should cut it. Shorter hair looks fuller right? But then men don't like short hair--so not until I can snag another one with the thin mop. I'll just continue to look like an aging hippie aka: Gloria Steinem, thank you very much. I've been using hot rollers to curl the 12 noodle strands. Curls make them look fuller, right? But not only is it falling out--but my hair texture has changed too. The curls just fall into stringy-looking mink pelts. (Which WAS attractive back in Ott-twelve.) It's wiry. Frizzy. The beginnings of old lady Clampett's hair, soon to be in a bun.

And where, oh where, has the shine gone? One day I was looking like those Pantene commercials--but now? It's dull. Coarse. And don't even get me started on the color. Dying is rough on your hair and will make it fall out more. So you can HAVE more hair, but you have to have gray ones? More cruelty. How the hell do you deal with the gray? If it's falling out--I don't want to dye every 4 weeks. But if I don't--suddenly I'm Bea Arthur. (And I"m not even going to say anything about what other hair on my body is turning gray because that WILL and IS sending me over the edge when I think about being with a man again.)

The frequency women my age have to dye--is mean menopause trick #3. Because it costs a fortune. $100 every time. I've tried to buy a box of dye--and DIY it for $6.99. But I have long, dark hair. And a white bathroom. Inevitably I end up with what looks like a crime scene--dark smears on the white rugs, walls, towels--and last time I tried this--not sure how--it was on my toothbrush. So I'm back to the pros.

Now, about that gig I lost because of hair. A while back, I was at a meeting to discuss coverage of a movie festival that starts with Sun and ends with Dance. And was pretty excited about it--figuring I'd be the "correspondent" doing all the interviews--maybe get to meet Robert Redford? (definitely worth dying for.) But the meeting began by telling me, the "correspondent" would be a little late. Wait? I'm already here--right? Nope. It wasn't going to be me. And then it walked in. The correspondent, and her long, shiny, silky--THICK--hair. The kind that looks good even when you don't wash it, and wear it all piled up in a clip? The youthful hair got the gig. I immediately thought--Ah. I see. I'm old. I have thin hair that doesn't shine on camera in front of celebrities. She has no experience, but hot damn! What hair! You're done Lynn. Find a new job as an elementary school lunch lady and hide that crap under a shower cap for all eternity. (Or at least until the undertaker can work his wonders.)

My new glasses. (and hair?)

So what's a middle-aged single gal with lack-lustre hair to do? Buy exciting and interesting eye glasses so the attention moves downward. Right? Wrong. I normally buy the same eye glasses every time. Small frames. Black. Thin. So they don't look obvious. (That I'm blind.) But not this time. Note to self. Don't ever go pick out new frames when you're feeling bad about your age and your massive five-head. (forehead isn't big enough) Also another note to self? Don't pick out new frames when your eyes are still dilated. Result? I walked away with something large and BLUE. And wait for it...there's some kind of jewelry on the sides. So not only do I now look like Gloria Steinem with the hippie hair--but I'm starting to resemble Dame Edna as well. (Line right up boys!)

I never cared much about hair growing up. I was a bit of a tomboy--my mother forced me to get a "Twiggy" pixie cut from age 3-15. It was all the rage. (Okay maybe not for over a decade, but...) My hair never kept me from succeeding--I still made cheerleader--dated the homecoming king--got into UCLA--with normal looking--non-special hair. So now--what gives? Why make it all about the hair now? I looked around on the train home from work the other night. Young girls--long, full, hair. Washed or not washed. Styled or not styled. Didn't matter. Gorge. Women my age? All tried that day to style it, curl it, hat it. But thin. Wire. Holes. The opposite of Brooke Shields. (Who HAS to be getting near 50--is she wearing a wig?)

See? No hair. Okay!

I thought maybe writing about it would lessen the stress. But as I do, I run my hand through the few pieces I'm babying up front--and like the sounds of precious pine needles falling off Charlie Brown's little Xmas tree...I hear another few dates, I mean strands, falling to the floor. Anyone with good wig store suggestions for pale white girls, please leave a comment with address. *Sigh*

She's gonna blow!

I'd like to say a few words about middle-age acne. What the F---? That's really all I can say. Actually no, it's so heinous it requires more than a few words. It seems cruel to add this battle with Mt. Vesuvius on my face, to the list of other "fun" women get to experience at this age. And I'm not naturally pimple-prone, mind you. I went through puberty with barely a scar or scab on my face. Beautiful skin. I suppose that's exactly why I'm being "blessed" with the Clearasil conundrum at this point in my life? Same with being the last of my teenage pals to get my period. Looks like I'm going to be the first to go-- on this side. It's fantastic how that higher being tries to "even things out." Glorious good times.

Now, when I talk about zits--I don't mean a widespread breakout, entire crater-faced disaster every time hormones act up. I'm just talking about one. One. Strategically placed zit. And no, it's not a tiny imperfection--it's large. Big. Red. Boulder. Like the one I have right now. (right, lower chin quadrant) And no matter how much cover-up you put on it--it only looks bigger. Like trying to hide a cake baking disaster by piling on more frosting. The bump only gets bigger. And looks more obvious. Now I don't want to jinx it--but I'd almost feel more comfortable if I got more than just one. At least balance out my face. And wouldn't stick out like a sore--um--thumb isn't big enough. Anyways, it's the first thing you see when I say hello. I feel like it crosses the street before I do.

And at this age--when you get a volcano-sized blemish--you don't want to put too much of that drying medicinal crap on it, for fear it'll be too drying and add wrinkles along with the stress of the lone facial mount. So yes, you can get rid of the zit--but you're now left with a wrinkly hole that peels, cracks and contributes to the make-up flaking. Usually while you're making a presentation.

It's embarrassing because they last so long. These aren't those teenage here-today, gone tomorrow zits. And inevitably, they show up on a day when you have to meet someone important. A date. A meeting. A job interview. "Hi, I'm 40-something and I still get pimples." It's there. You can't avoid it. So do you call it out in public? Or just ignore it and hope they don't see the spot covered in six layers of Lancome? I usually choose full disclosure. Not sure why. When I was in a relationship--I'd always say "ignore the massive zit"--and point it out. Every time he'd say "I don't even see it." But he would if we made out and the makeup got sucked away. So I tell. Maybe it's easier to call out my imperfections before someone else does? (I think I need to call out Dr. Phil on that one.)

On a movie junket a while back--I had to interview Matt Damon.  As I interviewed Mr. Damon--I heard it coming out of my mouth--but couldn't believe I was calling attention to it--there. I asked my last question: "So when you wake up in the morning--do you feel like the same person now that you've won an Oscar? Like me--this morning I woke up and thought--Wow--I'm going to interview Matt Damon--but then I looked in the mirror and realized I had this giant zit on my chin." (I pointed. Yes this story had visuals.)

Chirp-Chirp. (Insert cricket sound effects here.)

He may have looked at me like "lady your five minutes are up right now." But--phew-now Matt Damon knew I had covered up a zit--it wasn't some facial deformity. I felt better. Later in the hallway--the cameraman walked by me..."You can't even see it." he said. Maybe full disclosure to movie stars and men in your life--isn't the way to go after all. Maybe calling attention to your bobbles isn't the way to go either? Considering--most aren't even noticeable?

I know I can't ask for perfection at this point in life--but the constant stream of weird things changing in my body as time marches on and steals any semblance of hotness--is stressful. Do we have to contend with hormone-induced acne as well? Seems unfair. I thought--or was told--things get easier. Had I any idea I'd still be buying Clearasil in my forties--and not for my teenage kids (which I forgot to have)--I probably would have would have kept that sample "DermaWand" I got when I produced an infomercial about an electronic zit zapper Ivana Trump sold. "Gilllls (she couldn't say girls) Try the Derma Band...(she couldn't say "wand" either)...Eet geeves you gorgeous blemish-free skin!"  Only--it looked like a vibrator you use on your face --so I tossed it when I moved. Plus--back then--I didn't need the vibrator zit zapper. Gilllls. And don't say Pro-Active. That lady was my dermatologist when I had beautiful skin. The fact that I had to produce Ivana Trump's zitfomerical, instead of my own doctor's that made her a bazzillionaire--is enough to cause--well, acne.

So what do you do? I need some interaction on this one. Just laugh? Wear a hat? Stay home from work? Cold? Hot? Squeeze it? Don't squeeze it? The fact that I'm giving pimples so much press, is most likely fact that I'm a little obsessed with how I look. I'm not really. As I write this--I sit with an inch thick green mask on my face. It's just part of that jelly roll of insecurities you've read about in previous blogs. Aging. Dating. Dumping. That and ye old lack of self confidence which often forces me to show you where I'm lacking. So next time you see me--please--say "What's that thing on your face?" Stop me from the telescoping (wrong word) pity party! I handled it once--from age 14 - 18...I can do it again. (the pimples, not the pity.) It's really just puberty in reverse. And when I get though it--just like the first phase--I'll have a big, fun, carefree time ahead of me. Free from blemishes and cramps! Only this time, I'll wearing a diaper instead of cheerleading trunks.

(sorry--way more than a few words. Shoulda stuck with What the Fxxx.)