If you have to ask...

Now I know why women in their 50s (or in my case, approaching 50) have short hair. I used to think it was because we are far too old for current hair styles, sweeping do’s that make an attempt at looking young. Yes, I have been known to dry my hair in the nude because of how hot it makes me, but I have made sure I build in time for that factor and move on. And by long, I don’t mean Dr. Quinn long, just shoulder length or a little longer, enough for a pony tail, especially when it gets too hot. I keep thinking of my hair as my last bastion of youth. I will know I’m old when I cut my hair short short short.

Call Dan my stylist.

I spent this past weekend at my daughter’s apartment on my last Chi O Moms’ Weekend. For those uninitiated (GDI’s like I was in college), Chi O is a sorority to which my daughter belongs and once a year, they invite their mothers to partake in such activities as fake purse and silver jewelry parties and wine tasting events. But this weekend was a little different in that Saturday was a spa day. Lovely. Any other planned activities for the moms and daughters we replaced with shopping shopping and more shopping. We watched movies and had a great time. However, I did wake up on Saturday and thought I was on fire. I mean, literally o.n.f.i.r.e. I attributed it to young girls keeping their thermostats way too high or my daughter’s pillow top mattress or my ingesting steroids for an allergic reaction, but nevertheless, I was baking and drenched. Not once did I think I was having a hot flash. I can’t be having a hot flash. I am only 48 years and 7 months. COUNT THEM. 48 years and 7 months. I complain the next morning while standing in her bedroom in my tee-shirt that she keeps the house, and, subsequently, her bed way too hot for comfort. She, of course, thinks I’m nuts.

Last night I am home, read newspapers, doing laundry, catching up on 5 days of “ellen” shows. I watch “Sex and the City” and actually fall into bed exhausted and fall asleep by 11 which is unheard of for me. Before I know it, it’s 2am and I AM ON FIRE…o.n.f.i.r.e. Now, how can it be MY thermostat and MY pillow top mattress that is all haywire. Holy mother of God, I am having a hot flash. My body is burning up and my tee-shirt is soaked. I already look like a burning bush on any given night, but tonight, my head, the thing that holds up my hair, is ablaze with heat. Surely, I can feel this heat on the outside, but alas, my skin temperature is fine. I strip my pj’s off and head to the bathroom to put a cold washcloth on various sweaty parts of my body. If I didn’t have long hair, I would have stuck my head under a cold water faucet. I am tempted to hack my hair off at that point. And it’s at this point I realize, Jesus Christ, I am having a hot flash. In fact, this is my second one. I strip down to my tee-shirt and fall into bed under the ceiling fan and pull the comforter, blanket, and sheet aside. How can my husband still be clothed and under the covers? (I haven’t quite reconciled that he can’t and won’t be having this hot flash with me. I finally understand the saying, “If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.” How dare he be calm and blissful and cool/warm? Why is he allowed to live?

I have often wondered if I had ever had a hot flash. I know I am approaching that age and thought that maybe I was going to be lucky in all this aging process. But I remember what my mother once told me about orgasms. If you have to ask whether you’ve had one, then you haven’t. The same can be applied to hot flashes.

I must get my hair cut.