Those of you who have followed this blog for a while all know that my chronological age -- since I have four children -- is somewhere between age of consent and power of attorney, and my latest photo icon tends to confirm that. The hair particularly.
Now and then I wonder at the wisdom of using it. Certainly ageism exists in the publishing industry -- as it does everywhere else.
On the other hand I have an aversion to the mutton-dressed-as-lamb syndrome ( to use an appropriately antiquated English expression) that seems to afflict some women; and so I have not the slightest desire to archly present myself as if I were still in my twenties -- or thirties.
Still, I was a little surprised by a comment left by the ever-charming Sid Leavitt on yesterdays's post: Again, I was struck by that silvery hair. Think of the time it took to achieve that perfection.
Without dissecting that comment with all the fervour of a newbie over an agent's rejection letter, my first thought was: Busted! Where's the Clairol!
When my hair first began to streak silver, I fooled around with colouring agents for a short while, trying out the blonde which was mine as a child (visible in one of my earlier icons), but, for me, the process was more aggravation than it was worth.
And I justified my lack of physical vanity with a frail conceit of another kind. There exists in the Western Isles a sidhe legend about certain silver-haired women.
Certainly, like a good book, I've gone through more than one impression, but I wonder sometimes if the hair is enough to have me remaindered.
We all stereotype. We all judge books by covers. It's a practical process and often correct.
As a side note, I have never thought the way I look -- to some people's surprise and chagrin. The photo above is the only one that ever captured what my children persist in calling my eyes of death.
They were always very well-behaved children.