Dialogue: And after all that, I still look like me

By ROANNE PARKER

I was frantically trying to get ready for a 7.30 am breakfast meeting at the Auckland Club this morning when my trusty hairdryer choked a little. So what, you ask. Well, it seemed to me the worst thing that could have happened at that moment was my hairdryer would die and I would have to walk into that meeting with my hair suffering from multiple personality disorder.

It's enough to make your sphincter clench in horror at the thought. Half-damp mousse and limp waves, half golden shiny straight. Properly blow dried, my hair shows that eventually it does happen even if you are as cheap as I am and always buy Pantene rather than the $30-a-bottle stuff the hairdresser tries to sell you. (You're welcome, Pantene; sorry, Servilles.) But without the help of 1800-watt hot air, it's all ratstails and flaccid curls stuck to my shoulders. Most unbecoming.

It's tragic to think that I am as shallow as that. Once I was safely coiffed and in the car I tested myself. Surely there are worse things that could have happened. You'd think so, wouldn't you?

But then it's also true that more Americans fear public speaking than fear death. And even after careful consideration, I think it's safe to say that I would rather stand in front of 5000 people and forget my speech than perform a first-class oration with scraggly hair.

They say that one great thing about leaving the first flush of youth behind is that one accepts oneself and one's limitations. I am happy to accept that I need a blow-dryer to feel like facing myself in a shop window reflection.

I used secretly to suspect that if only I had a team of makeover specialists in my ensuite every morning I, too, would emerge fit to grace the cover of some publication or other.

Now I understand that while I certainly might emerge a thousand times more presentable than is the case usually, I would still look like me.

A few years ago when my hair was very long and very blond I had a hissy fit and had it cut short and dyed brown. My best bloke friend nearly wept when he saw me. I have never seen him so speechless and uncomprehending.

Getting rid of that girly asset voluntarily seemed to him to be akin to a guy having his six-pack abs removed and a big fat beer gut attached.

My girlfriends all said, "Go, you good thing" (aka "Thank God, it's not my head"). One even said that it was very funky and that I still looked like me. What a compliment.

It's lovely when you realise that whether you are rich or poor, 10kg either side of your goal weight, in jeans or a ball gown, your best mates don't really give a toss, and that the best outfit is the one that makes you feel like yourself.

Now I still cover my bed with discarded clothes most times I get dressed, but it's because I want to feel like me, to dress to suit my mood and my own expectations of the day to come rather than for what I think others will think of me.

Some days a certain piece of clothing feels like me and some days it doesn't, and it's that that keeps it in favour rather than the "Hot" or "Not" list. But I should point out that I couldn't ever feel like me while wearing anything without a great cut, anything made out of polycotton fleece or fake anything (vinyl snake-skin will pass me by, that's for sure), and anything even remotely resembling trackie dacks.

Thinking about it, there is a distinct relationship between gorgeous fabrics and shoes and how much I feel like myself. I can see I am going to completely stuff my argument if I continue any further down this track so if you don't mind I'll leave it there and move right along.

I look forward to pulling this column out when I'm 60 and guffawing loudly at how I valiantly try to make believe I don't care what other people think when they see me. By then I will no doubt be experiencing that phenomenon that comes with ageing - the encroachment of invisibility.

How will I cope with moving through the world unnoticed like those old women I see every day picking their way through the teeming youthful mass? Sadly? Resignedly? Gracefully, I hope.

But those who know me would probably agree that it's more likely I'll take to wearing a big blue beehive like Marge Simpson and trail grandchildren and purple scarves in my wake.

Invisible? I'd rather lose my hairdryer!