Middle Ground

Middle Ground
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday February 28, 2015

A hair salon is a dangerous place for an existential crisis. Propped in a padded chair, I wear a black plastic cape like a shroud. A black hand-towel encircles my neck, fastened tightly at my throat with a press-stud. The young hairstylist stands behind me and slops her brush into a puddle of hair dye on her trolley. She carves a centre parting along my scalp then slaps her loaded brush back and forth across my greying head as if she’s painting a picket fence.

At some point, every client at the hairdressers must confront their reflection. And so, reluctantly, I drop my Woman’s Day and examine my mirror image. I’m pinned under a beam of white light from a ceiling as black as my middle-aged despair. (Salon lighting is designed to show off your hair at the expense of your face).

I inspect left and right, but no matter where I look, the maze of mirrors reflects bits of me I don’t want to see. I stare at my profile, wondering why my nose looks bigger than it used to. The back of my head is flatter than I remember. (Note to self: no more ponytails.) I see half-moons of blue shadow under my eyes. I’ve never noticed them before. When did my frown deepen from a crease to a furrow? My neck! Is that my neck? Why is there a pouch under my chin? I lift my chin, clench my jaw and the pouch tightens, then disappears, replaced by a collection of stringy tendons that stretch from jaw to collar bone. I pray to Hebe, Goddess of Youth, to spare me the arrival of those fleshy, drooping jowls.

I have been young all my life until now. Overnight, spots are appearing on the backs of my hands in pretty shades of fawn. My shape is shifting. A belt once emphasised my waist. Now it advertises tummy spillage. I have acquired what my nan used to call an ‘ample bosom.’ I no longer flaunt my knees in short skirts.

If I cover my left eye, the razor-edged fronds on the palm outside the window become a blur. If I cover my left, they turn to green fuzz. But with my glasses on, I can discern a lone ant marching down the spine. I spend more time thinking about the whereabouts of my specs than my children.

Middle age has reminded me I’ve run out of time to become a ballerina or capture a Higgs boson. Those dreams are dead. I failed to tap my potential. Squandering time was my teenaged occupation. In my twenties, life stretched boundlessly before me – there would be time for everything. How is it I have been to the funerals of three close friends my age?

At the Royal Show, I discovered fear has replaced recklessness. With seven-year-old son tugging me towards the rollercoaster, I passed off the knot in my stomach as excitement. I bought two tickets to the Wild Mouse, which seemed far scarier re-named the Python Loop. As the wheels began to rumble, I gave my son a fake grin and for the next two minutes, rode that rollercoaster with my eyes clamped shut in terror. Vertigo suffocated any euphoria. Middle age has taught me my limits.

Over 40s should not heap scorn on the young. It brands us as obsolete. Last week at a dinner, we mums lampooned our offspring’s bad taste in music.

“Have you actually listened to Limp Bizkit?” asked one. “The language is foul!”

We chimed in with our own examples until someone piped up: “Listen to us! We sound like our mothers!”

For a moment, we were dumbstruck.

I thought back to the day my own Mum announced she wouldn’t pay for ballroom dancing lessons just so I could obsess about the boys from the school next door. “You’re too old to understand!” I shouted, and flounced off to my room, satisfied I’d inflicted a punishing blow. She yelled back: “You’re too young to know anything!” Beneath my outrage, I suspected she was right.

Already, I feel my life narrowing. Ten years ago, a Saturday night at home was unthinkable. Now two nights out in a row is the result of poor planning.

No-one in the family wants to see me dance anymore. With Footloose on the telly, I spring out of the sofa. Teenage son mimes a cry for help.

“C’mon honey!” I yell. “I used to be a great dancer!”

“No, you didn’t. I can tell,” comes his withering reply. My hip wiggle peters out. I fear I’m the equivalent of a 50-year-old man growing a ponytail.

Perhaps middle age is the time to reflect – not on the aspirations we failed to realise – but on the bad things that never happened. In the meantime, I won’t be quitting dancing until the music stops.