RBF, Gray Hair & Cataracts: Apparently This Is the 60s Deluxe Package

I’m going to need a minute to discuss what is happening with my face, my hair, and my eyeballs.

Because there have been developments.

Honey, pull up a chair...and a beverage.

To be fair, they did not all arrive the same way.

My RBF has been with me for years.

My gray hair transition was chosen. Bold. Liberating. Slightly terrifying.

The cataracts and floaters showed up out of nowhere, completely uninvited.

Apparently this is the 60s deluxe package.

I do not remember selecting deluxe.

I would have stayed with basic.

My Face Has Been Starting Rumors for Years

I didn’t get RBF at 60. Let’s be clear.

RBF and I have history.

My face has been starting rumors about my mood for at least a decade. Maybe longer.

This is not new information to the people who love me. Or to strangers in public who feel compelled to ask, “Are you ok?”

And I am.

Usually.

I’m just thinking. Or concentrating. Or trying to decide if I have the energy to run to UPS and return my latest Amazon treasure.

But apparently my face has a flair for drama.

It says things I did not approve.

It looks concerned when I’m perfectly fine.

It looks irritated when I’m merely listening.

It looks judgmental when I’m literally just standing there.

People ask, “What’s wrong?”

Nothing.

This is just my face parked in neutral.

But now, as my face continues its slow migration south, the RBF seems to be gaining confidence.

It’s not just resting anymore.

It has a permanent position.

And listen, gravity is busy at this stage of life. It has a lot of projects going.

Face.

Neck.

Arms.

And let's not forget the girls, who appear to be looking for something they dropped.

So maybe the next phase is figuring out how to give “resting bliss face.”

Which sounds peaceful and aspirational.

Also impossible.

Because the only way to counteract downturned lips is to walk around forcing a smile all day.

And forced smiling all day?

Creepy.

So for now, if my face looks like it has concerns, please know: I may be perfectly happy.

Either way, let’s not assume, people.

Going Silver, On Purpose

The gray hair, on the other hand, was my choice.

A bold choice.

A liberating choice.

Slightly terrifying, but still...my choice.

I was tired of coloring it.

Tired of the appointments.

Tired of the cost.

Tired of watching the regrowth show up approximately eleven minutes after leaving the salon.

I do think silver hair can be beautiful.

Modern.

Striking.

A little rebellious, even.

So I decided it was time to own it.

Possibly after too many inspirational silver-hair Instagram reels and one too many moments of staring at dark roots and thinking, “I cannot keep doing this.”

My natural hair was very dark brown. Almost black. I continued to dye it that color as the silvers began to show.

So let’s just say growing out gray was not going to be a soft, blended transition.

There would be no gentle shimmer.

No subtle “salt and pepper.”

No graceful little whisper of silver.

There would be contrast.

There would be a skunk stripe with a lighting crew.

And there would definitely be moments of wondering if that shiny part was silver hair coming in...or if it just looked like there was no hair there at all.

At first, I thought I could handle the grow-out. “I’ll just be patient. I’ll let it happen. I’ll embrace the process.” Adorable.

I had forgotten that patience is not always my strongest spiritual gift.

So at my next appointment, when I was supposed to touch up the regrowth, I looked at the situation and thought...

Nope.

Cut it off.

All of it.

Or at least enough of it that I left with a pixie cut and the facial expression of a woman who had either made a bold reinvention move or needed to sit in the car for a minute.

Possibly both.

The Pixie Cut: Liberation, Panic, and Occasional Mother Sightings

Here’s the thing about cutting off a dark bob you’ve worn some version of for decades:

It is both wildly freeing and mildly alarming.

On the one hand, there was this immediate sense of relief.

No more chasing roots.

No more pretending the grow-out phase was “interesting.”

No more scheduling my self-esteem around a color appointment.

There is something very freeing about saying, “Just cut it off.”

It feels brave.

It feels clean.

It feels bold and sassy and just unhinged enough to make people wonder if you are about to book a solo trip to Bali, buy a white convertible, or take salsa lessons from a suspiciously charming man named Diego.

In other words, I support her.

And while the pixie has been liberating, it has also been a bit of a shock.

Especially when I catch myself off guard.

Like walking past a mirror at Von Maur and thinking...omg, I look exactly like my mother.

Or seeing a photo of myself playing Mahjong with friends and realizing...nope, it’s not just the mirror.

And listen, I loved my mother.

I just wasn't emotionally prepared to be minding my own business and suddenly see her looking back at me.

I may keep the pixie.

I may grow it out into a silver bob.

I may spend the next year in some sort of awkward hair witness protection program while I decide.

Who knows?

At this point, my hair has become less of a style and more of an unfolding documentary.

There may also be hats.

Possibly bigger earrings.

Maybe both.

We are still gathering data.

Me... smiling big to hide the major-league RBF! (Take a look back at my Home or About page of this blog to see the huge hair change)

And Then My Eyeballs Joined the Party

Just when I thought we had enough happening, my eyeballs came in hot.

Cataracts.

I’m sorry...what?

There are certain words you expect to hear at this stage of life.

Collagen.

Calcium.

Cholesterol.

Comfortable shoes.

But cataracts?

Yes, I know cataracts are common. I know this is not some shocking medical scandal. I know people deal with them all the time.

But still.

When the eye doctor says “cataracts,” there is a part of your brain that immediately looks around for the old person they must be talking to.

And then you realize...

Oh. It’s me.

I am the old person in this scenario.

Rude.

And as if cataracts weren’t enough, apparently I also have floaters.

Because why stop at cloudy when you can add visual confetti?

Floaters are such a cheerful little name for something that is, in reality, tiny mystery debris drifting across your vision while you’re trying to read a menu, a supplement label, or the fine print on a wrinkle cream that is making extremely bold promises.

And sometimes they dart across my vision so convincingly that I have been known to swat at the air like an incoming gnat just breached security.

One of these days, someone is going to catch me doing that and think, “Well. She’s having a moment.”

Cataracts.

Floaters.

At this point, I’m afraid to ask what my elbows are planning.

Humor, Attitude, and Larger Earrings

Yes, my face, my hair, and my eyeballs are all going through things.

I don’t have a five-step plan here.

I have a silver pixie cut, an eye doctor, and a face that keeps sending the wrong message.

Maybe I should just market T-shirts that say, “I'm not mad...it's just my face.”

Clearly, that part still gets me.

I hate being misunderstood.

I really do.

Thankfully, I can laugh about it.

Better than the opposite.

Maybe there is something oddly freeing about this stage of life.

Maybe at 60, we are a little less interested in people-pleasing and a little more interested in simplifying.

So I’ll keep on managing the situation with humor, a little attitude, and maybe a larger pair of earrings.

Because apparently this is the 60s deluxe package.

I still do not remember selecting deluxe.

I would have stayed with basic.

Seriously.

Stay curious, friends.