Last week I got a much needed hair cut. In spite of being moderately chubbier these days (okay, maybe moderately is a bit generous here), I still feel hella lot better with predictable hair. For me, a half an inch’ll do, thank you very much. I also poured about a gallon of blue black foaming Garnier Nutrisse into the mix and emerged with a thick, rich, black skull cap of hair.
Every time I get a hair cut, after I complete the Shower to Remove Little Tiny Hairs ands Hair Dye, I sit down and put on makeup, something I do with greater infrequency these days. A little foundation. A little blush. Make my eyebrows presentable and sometimes toss in some eye liner. Rarely do I add the mascara, because you know, glasses—what’s the point?
And hell, once the make up is on, it’s Selfie Time.
I’m not sure at what age the selfie-taking process becomes uncouth. I’d like to think it is an ageless kind of thing, but at some point, maybe you do have to say when.
Just for fun, go to Instagram and enter the #middleagedselfie hashtag. As of this writing, there are 85 posts. On Instagram. 86. Compare that to the 14,250,054 posts for #believe and you realize that middle-aged selfies aren’t really a thing. Hell, there are 274,642 posts for #fart. But just 85 for people between the ages of roughly 40 and 60 taking photos of themselves.
What’s up with that?
As I put together this unfiltered collection you see above, I didn’t exactly jump on posting mine to Instagram. I thought, “Yeah. Pass.”
And why? Is it because I’m more mature now and should possess a bit of decorum with what I choose to share?
I mean, we all know the sacred rules of Middle-Aged Selfies, right?
1. Hold phone 6 inches to 1 foot above head. Look up.
2. Hold phone 1 foot to 16 inches above head. Look up.
3. Hold phone directly above head. Look up.
4. Tile your head, slightly, or turn it ever so gently to one side.
5. Blast the shit out of that sucker with filters.
Sometimes, I’ll do a selfie and use the direct send feature of Instagram and I basically just send it to one of two people: My daughter or Tara Whitney. I know both will greatly appreciate my efforts. Often I’ll get a direct reply or simply the hand clap emoji. That’s enough for me.
Maybe it’s just the incongruity of it all. Is middle-aged selfie an oxymoron in theory? Should we be taking these photos of ourselves during these years where the elasticity of our skins takes a veritable nose dive?
I’m not saying I have the answer here. I just know to hold my phone in the right spot and let the chips fall where they may.