Finally Choosing Me

For most of my life, I looked pretty much like someone expected me to look.

Nothing particularly wrong with that. I just followed the rules.

And there were plenty of rules.

Working as a nurse in Texas meant dress codes that were very clear about what was—and definitely was not—considered appropriate. No facial piercings. No visible tattoos. And hair colors were expected to be colors that might reasonably occur on an actual human being.

So I followed the rules.

What I didn’t realize was how much practice I’d had doing exactly that.

Follow the rules.

Don’t push the boundaries.

Don’t draw too much attention.

Be appropriate.

Be who you’re supposed to be.

Then I moved to California and discovered something slightly dangerous:

Nobody cared.

I saw nurses with visible tattoos. Piercings. Hair colors that Mother Nature had absolutely nothing to do with.

They were still nurses.

They were still professionals.

They were still taking excellent care of their patients.

Well.

This was new information.

Then my youngest daughter and I planned a trip to Hawaii for her 20th birthday. Neither of us had ever been, and we were ridiculously excited.

Somewhere in all that excitement, I made a perfectly logical decision:

Obviously, Hawaii required sunset hair.

I don’t know who established that rule.

Probably me.

But after spending so much of my life following everybody else’s rules, I figured I was entitled to make a few of my own.

So sunset hair happened.

And apparently that opened a door.

Over the next few years there was pink and blonde. Purple. Pink again. Sometimes the color matched a trip. Sometimes it went with a Halloween costume.

And sometimes the entire reasoning process was basically:

That looks fun.

Which, as it turns out, is a perfectly acceptable reason to do something to your own hair.

Then came the tattoos.

My youngest daughter and I got our first matching tattoo during a Mardi Gras trip. Later, after sharing our Hawaii adventure, we added matching Hawaii tattoos behind our ears.

I love the tattoos themselves, but I love what they represent even more.

They’re little permanent reminders of places we went, things we experienced, and memories we made together.

Then there was my phoenix.

That one tells a different part of my story.

The phoenix rising from the ashes on my arm isn’t just decoration. I hope eventually to turn it into a sleeve—something that reflects the past I’ve survived while still showing my faith in a better future.

Because I’m not interested in pretending the ashes weren’t there.

I’m just not planning to stay in them.

Somewhere along the way, apparently my face also began looking suspiciously under-accessorized.

So I got my nose pierced.

Then both upper cartilage piercings.

Then my eyebrow.

Then my septum.

At this point, I’m not entirely sure whether this qualifies as personal growth or whether I simply discovered that nobody was going to stop me.

Either way, I was having a fantastic time.

Eventually I found the hair colors that felt the most like me:

Blues and purples.

I even took about a year off from coloring it.

Apparently I needed to make sure.

Then I cut my hair to my chin.

Then shorter.

Then into a short bob/pixie.

And back came the purple with blue highlights.

Yep. There she is.

Looking back, I don’t think I suddenly became an edgy, slightly punk woman in middle age.

I think she had been there all along.

I was just afraid to let her take up much space.

For years, rules and expectations told me what was appropriate. Responsibilities told me what mattered more. And somewhere underneath all of that was a woman who apparently liked purple hair, blue highlights, tattoos, piercings, and doing things simply because they made her smile.

Once I really started searching for the woman underneath the rules, restrictions, and years of putting self-care somewhere near the bottom of the list…

She came out like a wrecking ball.

And I’m glad she did.

Because every color, tattoo, piercing, and haircut has been a tiny little declaration:

This is my body. This is my life. I get a vote.

Actually, when it comes to my appearance, I get the only vote.

I’m not willing to stifle that part of myself again.

Have I achieved this impressive level of enlightenment in every other area of my life?

Absolutely not.

You’ve read the boundary post.

We’re working on it.

But this part?

This woman with the purple and blue hair, the piercings, the tattoos, and the slightly punk edge?

I’m keeping her.

Turns out she wasn’t a midlife crisis.

She was just waiting for her turn to choose.