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Fork! I’m Fifty! Wine, Women and Song.

The best part about menopause … Ummm … There is no best part! Everything about it is forked! Okay, let me re-phrase that … It is great we are able to talk about menopause and peri-menopause more openly now. (How’s that? Better? Yes, thank you. You’re welcome. Fork off. Oh, okay.) 

Although, I would be very surprised if the preceding generation of women didn’t compare notes over cups of tea or an Aperol Spritz or two. (Too far back. What? You’ve gone too far back! Where? Aperol Spritz dates back to the 20s not the 60s. Right. And I care because? Oh, okay.) Scrap that last sentence … Our mums definitely would have had conversations about the ‘change of life’ over Vodka Martinis or Harvey Wallbangers as they were approaching their fifties. (Better? Cheers.)

We are generally given the ‘birds and bees’ talk at around eleven or twelve – possibly earlier for some, possibly later for others, possibly not at all for some and possibly it was far too traumatic for others. For me, it was an uncomfortable chat around a lounge chair with my mum and two sisters. I had no idea what the hell mum was talking about. I was a kid. Better than that, I was a tomboy. Get back to me when the boob fairy has given me a couple of well-formed boozies and the hair fairy has planted a small, well-formed pelt to cover my bits.

If mum mentioned anything about menopause or peri-menopause prior to me experiencing some of the effects, I have no memory of it (typical) and would have had no idea what the hell she was talking about. I was a kid. Better than that, I was a kid with well … nothing who grew up to own weird fried eggs resembling boozies. Ignorance was my preferred state of bliss. And really, what difference would it have made?

I was given the ‘birds and bees’ chat: I fell pregnant at twenty. Never a good student as the adventures, daydreams and stories I imagined in my head were always so much more entertaining. Much more so than having to learn something only to spit it back out almost instantly. (Tempted to say something about semen here but will restrain myself.)

Even if I had been warned of what was to come (see what I did there … that was an unintended pun … kind of proud of that one … I’d pat myself on the back if I wasn’t so scared of the bitch-slapping back fat), I would not have paid one bit of attention because I wasn’t experiencing it, there was nothing to relate it to.

Now, it is relatable. Now, I have conversations about it with my mum. Actually, it’s more me whinging, bitching and moaning and mum nodding. ‘I suppose I was lucky to have had a full hysterectomy in my thirties,’ she says, ‘I didn’t go through menopause,’ she tells me, yet again, for the umpteenth time, pushing the knife in further, as though saying ‘nah, nah, nar nar nah, that’s what you get for not listening to your mother, nah nah, nar nar nah!’ Well, my kids are being told about this major event in a woman’s life. Over and over again, until they have their climacteric radars at the ready.

If it wasn’t for the wonderful women around me, I would have been under the incorrect assumption that I was special and the only woman in the world to be going through this thing called peri-menopause/menopause. (Pausing for a moment to consider why this thing is called ‘men’ opause? What have men got to do with menopause? Answer: from the Greek word ‘men’ (month) and ‘pausis’ (halt). Common sense really. Though how common is common sense? Really?)

Back to my female friends of a similar age or affliction … Being able to talk, compare, whinge and bitch about all that is happening, was happening and is not happening any more is a bloody marvel. No pun intended. Particularly, as these sessions usually take place with some lovely wine or yummy gin.

Another favourite thing sacrificed: wine. It now hates me, with demon-spewing passion. I haven’t told the girls yet, feigning a preference for gin, but the truth will have to come out eventually. Even one teeny, tiny, little sip of wine and I end up sleeping in a puddle of my own sweat, waking up to my heart racing faster than Usain Bolt and a headache that would down a bull elephant.

Red wine is my arch nemesis now. Waaahhhhh!!! It was my favourite thing. With cheese and bread. More specifically: Brie and baguettes. Now, it’s: have some red wine at your peril, Jones. All hell breaks loose: literally. Diarrhoea for days and spewing up everything that has ever been swallowed by me … throughout my entire life … since my birth … since gestation. I have tested the theory – twice. It is a fact. Or does it have to be tested three times with the same outcome before a theory is accepted as fact? I think twice is sufficient. I am stupid, not demented.

Thank the heavens for gin! I have decided to become a gin wanker. I will test every brand of gin, list the botanicals of each together with the condiment/s best suited to each. My knowledge of gin will astound my peers, impress my family and possibly lead to my being recognised as a world-renowned aficionado of juniper juice. When I stop crying that is.

Unfortunately, all alcohol is fast becoming recognised as the cause of my night sweats, heart races and headaches, plus I really do not feel well the next day. Even from swallowing a teensy, tiny bit of Listerine. Doomed! Doomed! I am doomed! What is a fifty-something year old woman supposed to live for if she can’t drink alcohol? (Hubby nudges me. Oh, alright then.)

Giving the above more contemplation than it deserves, I put the ‘Best of the 80s’ CD on the stereo, whip out the vacuum cleaner and sing along with UB40 at the top of my lungs: ‘Red, red why iiiinnnnnneeeeee…’
(Fork! I’m fifty!)

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Fork! I’m Fifty! Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow.

Who knew? Well, hundreds … no, thousands … quite possibly millions of women knew when they experienced it first hand. And, quite possibly, they may have warned the next generation. Or, they were nasty bitches who thought ‘they have youth, they can fork off,’ and kept this little nugget all to themselves.

For some completely forked reason, some/most/almost all women when they reach peri-menopause or menopause, the molecular structure of their hair changes (except for you; female who’s name starts with the letter ‘S’ and who shall remain nameless: bitch). Some blame hormones, some blame diet, some blame hormones and diet, some blame the hormones in the foods in the diet – whatever the reason is: it is forked!

When your hair was your crowning glory (oh yeah, that pun was intended), like mine most definitely was, losing what feels like handfuls of it and/or the losing the thickness of it and/or losing the length of it, is just a tiny bit hard to come to forking terms with. The penny drops … ah, so that is why older women mostly have short hairstyles. Dur!

I knew something was happening with my hair. Initially I thought it was because I had changed shampoo and conditioner brands. My hair started to feel coarse. Perhaps it was my hands, I told myself, after working in the garden – placated for a few more days. After washing my hair, my hands would be covered in long threads of brown locks, say nothing about the shower drain. Maybe I was turning into a werewolf and, so was the drain?

And then, I saw a photo of myself … taken as I was walking … along the beach … on a slightly breezy day … on Facebook. What the fork? Where is my hairline? Where did it go? I could have sworn it used to start a centimetre or two further forward on my forehead. It’s gone out with the tide! Receded back onto my skull almost in line with … my ears! Waaahhhh! Come back! Come back! Swim back to mummy. Forking Facebook!

That was the day I decide to rebel against nature, take matters into my own hands, take charge, make a stand, show my hair who was boss. I went to the hairdresser and snip, boom, bang … one sexy new short hairstyle. Oh yeah! Take that follicles! 

I had started a war. Next morning after waking with seriously bad bed head, I washed my hair. I may as well have stuck my hand in a power point whilst having a bath with my favourite fan heater. Gone were the sleek, shiny tresses of yesterday, sitting perfectly in their trendy, geometric, groovy, gelled coif. During the night, some bad bed head hair fairies had been to visit. In place of luscious locks were wire, feathers and cobweb strands; the sticky ones. What the fork? Seriously?

Right! I’ll fix your wagon. Shoving a baseball cap on my head, I go to the supermarket, purchase a semi-permanent hair colour in approximately my natural hair colour (or what it used to be before the greys started appearing at my temples), go home, straight into the bathroom, open packets, bottles, gloves, put this lotion into that bottle with that lotion, shake shake shake, squirt rub squirt rub, rinse, condition, towel dry, et voila! 

Hmmm … well that didn’t have the desired effect of restoring the wayward Medusa-esque frizz back to the store bought cool do. Though it did hide the greys for another month. Right! Out came the hair dryer and the newly purchased round styling brush and the newly purchased styling gel. I should have purchased a new me while I was at it. One who has the stamina, strength and gives a flying toss about spending an hour doing their hair.

After five minutes of blowing, brushing and gelling I looked like a band member from Flock of Seagulls – not pretty, not mentally healthy, and not legal (no matter how hard Trump tries to make it so). Plus my arms were so sore from wrangling the hair dryer, the hair brush and the back fat. Ah well, I surrender. Have it your way. Be rebels. You win. Take on the chore of trying to give me the shits every morning.

I had made the fatal error of forgetting that I am no J-Lo or Beyonce; I do not have an entourage at home to maintain my new do. Together with the fact that I have: no interest; no stamina; no strength and having been witness to my back fat being wind blown around my body was enough to make one vomit; though the thought of bits of pea and carrot becoming trapped in fat wrinkles was enough then to stop that urge. Gag-arama! I do have a baseball cap though, and time. Time to grow the high maintenance do out and start again.

A couple of years later, my sun bleached long brown hair is almost at my waist. But it is so fine and wispy, plus I have my new Mickey Mouse meets Dracula hairline. I miss my thick, wavy mane. I think, ‘what if I layer it, that should thicken it up a bit?’ So off she goes, layers her hair, gives herself a fringe. Seriously, who let her have the scissors? Who? What stupid peri-menopausal idiot decides it is a good idea to give herself a haircut and a fringe?

Too late now! There is no turning back. Fork! What have I done? My hair is uncontrollable and a frizzy, wiry mess. Back to the hairdresser, who takes it upon herself to deal out a terrible nanna bob with an even worse fringe. I looked like the Three Stooges had attacked my head. The hairdresser looked at me as if to say ‘this is what you get when you cut your own hair.’ Well, that backfired smarty-farty because if you’re going to make me look like that, I am not coming back!

Ah fork! Back to square one. It is around this time that I have an epiphany. No more high maintenance hair. No more hair dye. No more trying to hide the fact that I am getting older. Suck it up and be a big girl. Find one good trustworthy hairdresser. Have a good, easy to manage haircut and stick with it. Have regular trims to keep the style.

Hubby came to the rescue (the training is working again): ‘Go short,’ he advised. ‘You can carry off a really short hairstyle.’ He picked the style and I found the hairdresser, and between the two of us … um, three of us … we have found a way to stop me from bitching, whingeing and complaining incessantly about my hair. Hubby is one smart cookie; that or he really cannot stand me bitching, whingeing and complaining. Boy, is he in for a surprise! (Fork! I’m fifty!)