Op shops have been lost. Since Covid. And for some reason earrings and scarfs are associated with the Op shop. I have missed them all.
Op shops have been closed here in Fremantle for the last 6 weeks or so, during our social isolation. I admit that I have missed them. My spirits rose this week when Vinnies and Good Sammys announced their reopening. But the Fremantle ones are still closed so I will have to wait for my Op Shop fix.
Because the Op Shop is a fix. A time waster, a distractor, an economic benefit to the shopper and the recipients of no longer wanted goods, an equaliser. A fix nonetheless. The Op shop sorties boost my spirits. Op shops take me off my route list: the lists which guide my day, a neat or not so neat list of jobs made each week, and then transferred each day to my diary. Items include shopping, appointments, exercise, books to read, writing times. A mushrooming memorandum of my life.
In town I dutifully go from one shop to another ticking off food items as I go,and then finding the coffee reward .On the way though, before or after, I can nip into an Op shop “just to check if there are any large saucepans“(I am laudably cooking healthy food in large quantities during this time)“We need some more plates”(to replace those I drop daily in a rush to get outside in this blissful sunny weather and sick of cooking).
Inevitably I make my way to those racks of brightly coloured assorted clothes. Yes ,I need a warmer sweater, a strapless summer dress, a dance frock,(in the pre Covid days that is). And always there are scarves: all the colours I love, red and orange and yellow and the occasional blue. Silk scarves ,a bargain, cotton scarves,flimsy wisps of floating georgette or strongly stated satin; in winter knitted mohair and pure wool, patterned and plain, warm around the neck. Sure to set off my standard outfit of jeans and top, and jacket.
I get to the counter and there just happen to be some earrings that go with the scarf or scarves. More bargains to join the earring collection I have at home, perched on the window ledge like so many sparrows: earrings for every day, every mood -and it used to be for every gig. I used to have large dangly earrings, brightly coloured to match my brightly coloured hair. Now the brightly coloured hair is grey and my ears cannot sustain heavy earrings -but some of them remain on that ledge.
Blue wooden ones and some twisty lolly looking ones from a couple of trips to Melbourne, a wooden orange owl, one of a pair from the same place bought at a garage sale, a fun morning with my daughter in law wandering the street sales, the dangly retro ones powder blue and pink from my daughter in law, my favourite happy ones .The small beaded ones from the Fremantle bead shop,now closed, one ill matched pair remaining from several I bought so that I can lose one and still have a pair. $4 a pair ,so several to lose.The small skull ones: pink and orange and red pairs from the same place .But I dont wear them now because I no longer find the skulls amusing .
In fact , as I wrote at the beginning of this blog-I can’t go to op shops during this time of Covid. So my distracting and calming game of Lets Pretend To be Somewhere/Someone Else has been paused. Scarves and earrings are effective, easy ,economical and flexible transformers.
We can all afford a scarf or a pair of earrings. The fix is harmless and a happiness booster. A brief moment out of the lists sitting in our heads and we can transform ourselves. We can move to another unspecified place and just be whoever,wherever,however. And Hats?Well thats another story.
I used to have lots of hats
PS Op Shops in Fremantle are opening on Monday. Just in time -I need some warm scarves .
“…..only God ,my dear, could love you for yourself alone and not your yellow hair“WB Yeats For Anne Gregory
So why not blog about hair and life ,and how hair, or lack of it, defines identity. Or maybe I should say contributes to defining a part of the self. Outward appearance is governed by body shape and movement, and dress. Hair is a highly visible and easily changeable component of dress .
So now I have the shortest hair I’ve had since I was 18.I f I can find the shot I will put it up : a family photo taken after my graduation, mortarboard sitting heavily on top of a flat bowl haircut and a round face. Why? Well from memory I think it was a gesture of independence and difference.Yes my parents who until then had gone on about my Veronica Lake hair style that would make me blind in one eye, were shocked and upset. It would spoil their daughter image.I was not beautiful, nor outstandingly talented ,and was amongst young women at university who often were (or I thought they were). I got attention by dressing strangely, arguing, and cutting my hair.
Over the years I have had hair of varying lengths and colour, but never that short again -until today. Once before I cut it from long to shorter and that was not a gesture of defiance, just getting older and wanting a change. I regretted the cut immediately(See Barcelona Haircutbelow)
That was in my 60s when I had completed a long walk on my own – the Camino Frances, a striking out for adventure away from family. I left home for the second time .
I am ambivalent about this most recent shearing .The reason for the cut is that the hair growing during and after chemo is baby hair, fluffy and tufty. I look like a half bald clown when it sticks up around my head. A deluded saint, sporting a lopsided halo. The local barber did a good job of cutting off those downy bits.( See photo above.)
Now when I look back at the old photos where my hair was varying degrees of length, I just feel a recognition of the person I was. I acknowledge the mix of identities I grew into along the way. The loving, romantic, soft mother and wife was one I liked. There is some nostalgia in looking at family photos not seen for many years. It”s like viewing a documentary of interconnected lives. However the pervading feeling is of a sort of contentment, and huge gratitude for the special people in my life. Also for the person I was, with all the imperfections. Family then and now loved me for myself alone. And I hope God loved me too.
The paragraph above does not contradict what is the crux of this blog. Hair for men and women holds several possible connotations in relation to identity. One of them is mentioned above -women with long flowing hair of a certain style may be perceived as owning, or position themselves as having, all or some of these qualities : romantic, loving, gentle, fey, vulnerable, mysterious …….The most transparent and frequently held belief around hair concerns sexuality. The hair of women and men commonly diminishes with age, But it is interesting that whilst bald men may be seen as as sexy,bald woman are definitely not.
Even short haircuts in women are seen as a sign of the end of sexual activity; women cut their hair as long hair framing the face “drags your face down”,”makes you look older”,”makes you look like mutton dressed as lamb ” . “Its too hard to maintain”.
While I don’t necessarily agree with any of the above sentiments, I admit to holding them at some stages in my life. I also recognise that times have changed, views have changed. Short hair is back in. My very short haircut is “elfin”.
Hair is one of the easiest elements with which to hide deficiencies in appearance: imperfections like weight, wrinkles, sagging breasts, double chin. Men still don’t have to disguise all of these ? Maybe I’m making sweeping judgements again. It seems from the perspective of an old, married, happyish, sexually Ok woman that older men don’t agonise about their hair or about their appearance generally.
Women,in my experience, like dressing up. We contemplate changes in appearance because our external self mirrors a number of assumed identities, our multilayered selves. Style of hair, length and colour figure prominently in our make believe. And a periodic reinvention.
Generally we like longer hair because it can be altered. Unless we are Sinead O’conner, young, beautiful with an exquisite bone structure .
Barcelona Haircut
This is not like the Waifs song
I haven t cut my hair to avenge
Or just to test
Your love for me without
My multicoloured strands
Long.
I didn’t cut it to atone
Or make a point
Not a symbol of moving on
Or finding God .
Perhaps a little wish to explore
Possible reinventions.
Oh how I wish
I‘d kept the swish
Against my cheek
Untidy hair falling
Held together by a scarf
With all my womanly art
Of looking groovy.
Couples everywhere
Holding hands, eating out
Sipping sangrias in sunny Spanish squares
And there’re women with hair
Long hair in bits hanging down
Long hair smooth
Long hair curled
Long hair coloured, tied in bunches, plaited, twirled
Long hair everywhere
On every street and square
This cut ain’t groovy at all
It isn’t even cool
It’s an unremarkable
Haircut
Will you still love me?
Ha!
Suzette Thompson
Note : Credit to Australian band The Waifs.Donna Simpsons song was an inspiration for this poem.
Also WB Yeats poem For Anne Gregory “Only God ,my dear, would love you for yourself alone and not your yellow hair”.
In front of his home in Bath , UK . Part of an underground defence . They practiced manoeuvres and had a set up of secret tunnels underground in hills nearby
Stocked with food and ammunition . Ready for resistance if Germans invaded
Gathering the fragments together :life after Chemo
Well hesitated to write this blog ,but then thought ,maybe it will be of use to some ,or interesting -and a means of my exploring thoughts and feeling s at this point in time . Me me me Thats my first thought -after the op and during chemo the focus was(needed to be ) Me me me .To get through the treatment and to get better I had to marshal energy .I drew a circle around myself for protection ,and to halt an expenditure of energy on other people ,other things.Some important and others my habitual propensity to concern oneself with others ‘problems and the ‘minuatae of everyday life “(White ).
I am not alone in this .The latter takes up much of us human beings daily waking space,and some of the night too .And thats our life ,not just the exciting or anticipated events .Just the minuatae,the minute by minute taking in of life around and within.
Thats life ,but some of it had to go .Each fortnight I had the scheduled blood test ,followed by the morning of chemo .Then home with my bottle and a little rest .2 days of “normal” life ,bottle off ,and the anticipation of 10 days of relative freedom -swim,eat well ,garden ,walk ,yoga ,pray and enjoy -all the while thinking positively ,taking deep breaths to relax ,minimum of stress .Short chats with neighbours as I walked past or worked in my garden, talks with my friends.Time with family ,a closeness that had always been there now expressed more openly .Lots of hugs and warmth and laughter.Gratitude ,hope and faith .God seemed near and approachable .
As the 6 months drew towards an end apprehension also popped up its head. believed I would be Ok ,but a little bit of me had plan B in mind -saying bye, making sure that I had said to each family member how much I loved him orher,tidying up !!!,I also thought back to deaths I had attended and remembered how each person ,how gentle ,how brave ,how their life was “rounded with a sleep”(Tempest )slipping from here into a hereafter leaving their light and love behind.
I have shivers up and down my spine as I write the above .And also think on Dylan Thomas “Rage ,rage against the dying of the light “Because I wanted ,and want, to be here .
Enough.Here Iam.Not in Spain in a little village ,Quentar ,as I had planned and visualised.Not walking amongst poppies, along rivers past ancient ,sometimes crumbling but still beautiful buildings ,into churches with their suffering Christ and mother,joining in the spectacular parades and songs of Semana Santa (Holy Week).Instead of eating ,tapas ,tortillas y ensalada,sipping Spanish wine in assorted bars ,I am cooking each night ,going to early bed with a book.Different from what I held in my mind Because none of us are going anywhere ,and those poor Spaniards are suffering more than we are here .
The Easter of the Corona Virus .It looks like it will be the year of the CV.But this is not about CV.This is about me ,and maybe one of you reading this blog
So now ? It has taken 6 weeks to get back to something approximating equilibrium.There was the initial burst of joy and relief after the blood test and scan which showed up clear.Then the meeting with the colon surgeon to schedule removal of the port in shoulder and other minor medical stuff. A slight dampening of spirits as memories returned.Walks and weights again to improve muscle strength.
RECOVERY ? Yes -skin loses most of its blemishes ,blue marks and cuts ,some of the crinkle recedes.Hair stops splitting as much, though retains that thin and standing on edge look .Balance better so that Ifeel grounded not about to topple over .Not as tired so that I fall asleep after lunch with my book.
BITS FALLING AWAY ?Then ,a brief recount as don’t wish to appear ungrateful or a hypochondriac -pains in legs ,swelling in ankles ,pains in neck ,pains in jaw ,stiffness .I did not have during all the months of chemo.Slight fear.No says the doctor not bone cancer .No says the oncologist ,doesn’t sound like chemo effects.Feel like an old woman .I now have sympathy for those old people who shuffle around with mouths turned down ,disagreeable faces I’m old old old ,and its because my body is so sore ,Google google -dont !Could be prolia jab ,and due for another.Maybe its the flu or pneumonia shot ?Could be lymphoma.Could be arthritis ,exercising too hard ,not exercising enough.Stress
STRESS AND OTHER CREATURES Ha thats it .Since being free of the disease have become more involved in the activities of this household .Commonly described as an intergenerational household.Younger members ,who also require support,come and go as they please despite being told the risk to me as “age and immunity challenged.” Plus the CV has curtailed a lot of outside distractions .Am I scared ?Yes.Dead right -this virus is unpredictable, there is no routine to follow .Or rather, the routine of handwashing, not touching face ,and isolation is a deterrent but its still out there keeping individuals away from families when it strikes .This is a darkness out there Like the shape-shifters of my early East African childhood;Lions disguised as folded blankets on the top of cupboards ,or ferrets waiting silently to bite as I put my feet on the floor to run out of the room at night.There was a figure crouched outside the window with a machete poised to slice at my neck if I raised my head outside the blanket .
Now there are no parents to cry out to . The leprechaun like, gentle,warm oncologist has more serious things to deal with,like treating the people who are still having treatment in a space that has to be monitored for the spread of a virus that can kill them faster than their diagnosed illnesss.The friendly nursing staff who pepped me up each fortnight ,the friend who took me to the appointments ( and we had a catch up and lunch after) are not longer accessible The 6 months was lonely ,but a different kind of loneliness .This disease if not about me ,or even about my family -its about this city ,country ,universe
So now my fears are compounded .
COMING TOGETHER But a few days ago the stiffness receded .Not gone .But can go to bed without a scarf around neck ,pain killers ,socks ,a huge cushion to prop up both my legs.I get out of bed in the morning and move without pain .I can move my neck sideways and not cry out with the spasms.
So what happened ? I could ruminate on the possibilities .But right now will keep my fingers crossed ,keep my nose out of others’ lives and problems .i will remain calm and supportive ,LISTEN without anger or attempting to solve others problems .
I will try to be emotionally as well as socially distant .Keep walking and swimming .And start dancing again.
.THANK GOD IM ALIVE
TGIF my father used to sing on Friday -thank god its friday .To the tune of ? I can hear it in my head but can’t name tune .I will sing and dance to TGIA ( Thank God I’m Alive ).
Dancing with my father
Me Me Me -no apologies
Me\ Me me now
Me before -now am slowly getting back the missing pieces Like this moon.Drawing by Zadie Roberts.
(Yoshio Nitta,Sculpture by the Sea,Cottesloe,WA ,2020)
CHAPTER 1. Loomings
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation.
Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time tozz get to sea as soon as I can.
Sambasue21 