I'm a full grown woman on my way to a trendy hair salon where young women and men get their hair cut. My daughter Renee, who is trendy and young, bought me a gift certificate for my birthday. She gets her hair cut at this salon every six weeks and every six weeks she has a new color and a new cut. This is not a bad thing but what she doesn't seem to understand is that at my age I have a pretty good idea who I am. I do not need to change my hairstyle in order to comply with fashion. That's my story and I'm sticking to it… I am not stuck in a rut. I will be taking the hairstyle challenge to please Renee and because I have this nifty gift certificate. I'll also be trying to convince the hairstylist that I don't want my hair to look like it belongs on someone from Friends. I wouldn't mind an updated look but I don't want to appear to be like one of those pathetic middle aged women who buy off the clearance rack at the junior shops. I've seen grown up women in silly clothes or with big bow like objects in their hair like pre-pubescent teens. I am not in favor of spandex on any but the very young. I don't care how thin you are. I don't want to see your body fighting off gravity in a public setting. Please do everyone a favor and buy yourself a full-length mirror and use it. Better yet, at one extreme end of your apartment install a double glass door like the ones at Wal-Mart, back up to the other side of your quarters and walk head-on toward the door. If you can honestly say that your recognize yourself in your reflection you can leave the house. A mirror will often lie but the double glass doors always speak the truth.

Aside from being afraid that I will not recognize myself when I look in the mirror after the hairstylist is finished with me, I'm also worried that I'll have to defend my hair color. I use henna, a completely unpopular product that is only currently used for hair color in third world countries where nothing else is available. In the world of pop culture it is known as the paste used for semi-permanent tattoos that have been popular in Asia and the middle East for about five or six thousand years. They took awhile to catch on in the west. I'm not prepared to pay someone $50 to attempt to get my hair the same shade that my friend from the Middle East achieves with henna for next to nothing. I will not be shamed into conformity.

My daughter was careful that I was dressed appropriately before I left the house. Inappropriately is here defined as "the way I usually dress." She made sure that my clothing reflected her fine taste in up-to-the-minute style as defined by someone under 21 in the fashion industry. Renee made sure I looked presentable so that I would not embarrass her by my presentation. This was reminiscent of the way I used her as a fashion accessory when she was a child. What goes around comes around. I also got instructed on what subjects I could not discuss with Brendan, the stylist. Under no circumstances could I refer to him as Brando, which is what I call him when she comes home with purple hair.

On my way to the salon I feel slightly excited. You must understand that the biggest change I've made to my hair in the past 15 years was the addition or subtraction of bangs. I've worn my hair long, straight and glow-in-the dark red since it was in style the first time in the '60's. I'm a little nervous that I may get caught up in the moment and agree to something I don't actually want. Men have charmed me in the past. I'll just have to be strong and not believe him when he swears he'll marry me if I do what he wants.

Even though I am no longer young I still want to look like I live in this decade. There are people in my family and neighborhood who still have Farrah Fawcett wings in their hair. I don't want to look outdated I want to grow up to be like one of those cool sophisticated women in their 70's who keeps up with fashion. They are trim and have the age appropriate trendy clothes not the teenager stuff. And I think to myself, "Yeah that's the old lady I want to be when I have to be an old lady!" However, how can I ever aspire to that old ladyhood when I am not willing to spiff up my look now?

I don't want to have to spend a lot of time dwelling on fashion but I want to present myself in a way that comes off as being too cool to care not as being someone who has let herself go. There is the thinnest line between these two looks. I'm not even sure why I am spending mental time on this issue. Men don't think about things like that. They wear the same suit for 30 years. If they put on weight they strap their pants around their groin.

The actual haircut experience was not at all unpleasant. At first, after examining my hair Brando did not make disparaging remarks about the color or color process. In fact, he liked the color and did not preach to me on the evils of henna. I thought for sure that he would try to sell me on some new hair dye that would make me thinner, taller, and 10 years younger. He did not and I let down my guard. His first suggestion was to put in little layers to add movement. I asked him if my hair was going to move while I was standing still. All I could imagine was Medusa from the old Hercules movies and that was not the look I was going for. He chucked and pretended to think what I said was funny. As any woman who has hung onto her long hair as long as possible knows, the thought of layers is like the thought of spontaneous baldness. Layers used to be straight lines cut across your hair that looked like a stairway to hell and took forever to grown back. Not true in modern times my skeptical friends! Layers done the new millennium way are actually cute and wispy. I survived the hair cut. Brendan was energetic and full of love for hair manipulation. I felt he was truly an artist and he lavished me with compliments… what more could I possibly ask for?

I left the salon feeling giddy and yes, younger. I checked myself out in the rear view mirror of my car and swung my head back and forth to examine my new hair movement. He was right. My hair was still a respectable length. I did not look silly or like I had had sacrificed my hair to the gods in some cut popularized at the Women's Correctional. In six weeks I'll go back again wanting the same cut so I can sport this new hairstyle for the next 30 years. Just in time for my "trendy sophisticated women in her 70's" look.

Written BEFORE my current relationship engendered with my oldest and best friend. This is how to do it folks...friends first for about 11 years or so ;-)

Ecclesiastes 4:9-11

Two are better than one,
Because they have a good reward for their labor.
For if they fall, one will lift up his companion.
But woe to him who is alone when he falls,
For he has no one to help him up.
Again, if two lie down together, they will keep warm;
But how can one be warm alone?


I don't know about the scads of other single women out there… but I have a hot-water bottle named "Bob"… after the old joke "What do you call a man with no arms and no legs in a waterbed?"

My reasons for remaining alone may be denial and they certainly do not convince me every day of my life that I want to be alone. If I am afraid of rejection so too am I afraid of acceptance as a call to action for change, commitment, and to make a choice to do this one thing at the expense of other things. I only have so many years. I want the peace that seems available only through a solitary existence. Someone once said, "If you tie two birds together they cannot fly even though they have four wings." If I have two functional wings, that's all I need. That's why I'm here.

Furthermore, the arguments in favor of relationships have not stood up in my experience or the second hand experience of those I know.

1) Grow old together: As a woman I am expected to outlive any man my age. My mother and her sister have been widowed three times. Go to any senior citizen singles gathering and you'll see six blue haired little old ladies to every eligible man past the age of 70. Then I look at my divorced female friends… their men didn't die they left… for another woman, for a man, or because they discovered they never wanted to be married in the first place… it was just a nasty case of desire gone bad or societal obligation. I am not forgetting that women also leave. I leave all the time.

2) Financial Security: My experience is not typical nor is it very unique. Men have:

a) lived off me,
b) bilked me out of cash,
c) left me in serious debt because I was naive enough to use my credit card for our trips, his games and seemingly endless appetite for stuff,
d) and assured me that the large amount of money he put away from his paycheck while we spent mine was for OUR retirement.

From the vantage point of maturity I can see that not only would I be in a better financial place if I never had a man in my life but that I can ill afford another man at this time. Yes, I know that there are men out there who are financially responsible and ethical. I don't seem to meet those men.

2) Monogamy – a safe and regular outlet for sex: Let's cut to the quick… the last two men in my life thought that monogamy was a type of exotic wood. They seemed to derive their self-esteem from the number of women they could attract and conquer.

The last boyfriend told me how horrible it is to be dishonest in a relationship. He told me how important loyalty is. I watched as he ignored women who were blatantly coming on to him and I thought he was honorable. He was sleeping with a woman in Rhode Island. I guess he thought once he crossed state lines it didn't count.

Now, I get many of my emotional needs met by my male friends. When we go out to diner or a movie I pay my own way. If I feel I need an orgasm afterward I can accomplish that alone in about three minutes. It might not really be making love but as Woody Allen once said, "Masturbation is having sex with someone I love." Although there is a minor lie in there… neither Woody nor I truly love our selves… so maybe it IS only casual sex.

3) With Two There is half the toil and twice the joy (or with two you get an egg roll): I have looked long and hard for this for decades. The closest I ever came was with the man who attempted to French kiss all but one of my girlfriends. The one who was saving HIS money for OUR future and left me with $10,000 of credit card debt. On the plus side he looked after my car and occasionally cooked. When I asked him once why he got to do only the chores he wanted to do and I had to do everything else he answered, "Because I'm bigger than you and if you don't like it I can leave." I don't know why that used to shut me up… but it did.

I guess I am a control freak and so used to doing everything that I just do it without realizing I do. After awhile, I start feeling resentful and do not know how to reverse the damage… so I leave.

If anything could convince me that I want a relationship… this would be the category. It would be so nice to have someone else worry about something for once. Also, sometimes when I get good news or see something really beautiful I want someone to tell. I try to keep that instinct under wraps because it shows that I am vulnerable. I don't want people to know I'm human because it leaves me open to abuse. Besides, most of the time although I am alone I am not really lonely. Which leads me to the next and last reason…

4) Companionship: I like quiet. I do not like television. I have a difficult time in the morning. If I make a mess it is my mess. If I clean my house there is no one there to make a mess. If there were such a thing as an ideal relationship for me it would either involve a very large house or two houses across the street from each other. What I'm saying is that I'm set in my ways. I've been alone in my apartment for five and a half years since my daughter left. I've been without a man in my house for 13 years. If I found a wonderful man I would try to make concessions. However, I don't think that a wonderful man will bump into me on the street and feel that I am worth the trouble.

Finally, not having a man in my life allows me the comfort to not care how I look. It's like being on a backwoods camping trip when you haven't seen your face in days and you could look like an acne commercial but you haven't even thought about it, your clothes are muddy and ill-fitting and make no logical fashion sense, and you smell like swamp but so does everyone else and nobody cares. No one is looking at me like a magic mirror telling me I am the fairest or not the fairest. It is comforting not to see myself through a man's eyes. When I get ready to go somewhere I either wear make-up or not depending on my mood. I do not stress out about my imperfections because I am invisible without a man. The older I get the more invisible I get. Soon I will just dissolve into the background like a chair upholstered in the same fabric as the wallpaper.

As you may have surmised, this invisibility is only for my physical attractiveness. The funny thing is that the older I get the more attention I am comfortable drawing to myself and the more risks I take. Beautiful women are encouraged to be silent like carbon based objects d'art. The likes of Lucille Ball who could be beautiful and funny at the same time are rare. Although I always tried to choose "funny" over "beautiful" it rarely worked in my favor… either way. Now that the attraction is dwindling it is more acceptable to be funny. I like that. For the most part, men do not like funny women. Maybe they view it as competition. Maybe it detracts from the dual stereotype of woman as either Madonna or Harlot… funny women are somewhere in between and dangerously close to the Harlot.

Finally, and I bet this was more than you bargained for, being alone gives one deeper powers of observation and perception. When I go for a walk in the woods alone I see small orange flowers and bright green mushrooms the size of pinheads. I hear a deer rustle in the meadow and catch a snake winding back into the underbrush by the noise it makes on dried leaves. I smell the damp earth turning and returning in a living parade of decay from which all life springs. Sometimes, at my own peril, I taste things that look like they might be good to eat… just like primal man walking though his environment before environment came to mean buildings. When I go for a walk in the woods with a friend, I see my friend… for the most part. Not that this is bad but if I never went into the woods alone I would never have seen the woods.

I will buy anything that's reduced to 99-cents. Even if it's sardines, I'll buy them and plan on incorporating more inexpensive seafood into my diet. I'll go on-line looking for a recipe for something like pasta au sardines.

If something is reduced to two for 99-cents I'll buy dozens of them. Even dog biscuits and I don't own a dog. I'll buy them and put them aside to give as Christmas presents to my friends' pets. I'll put them in what seems like a logical place and not find them again for 10 years. When I finally do I'll wonder where they came from and distribute them to people I know with dogs. The dogs will be the only ones who know how old the biscuits are. Buster will sit on the floor and look at me with that dog look that says "Are you out of your mind? These things are staler than stirrup pants!" The owner will not understand the doggie's lack of interest and will think their pet is exhibiting passive aggressive behavior. The next thing you know, my friends are consulting with an animal psychiatrist and these become the most expensive dog biscuits on the face of the earth.

Which brings me to my point. Not everything that is reduced to 99-cents is even worth 99-cents. I was at local home decorating store looking for a white wooden shelf and before I could make a clean get away without a single purchase I noticed a whole stand of CD's reduced from $15.99 in increments down to, you guessed it, 99-cents. One claimed Celtic roots, one African rhythm and another Caribbean moods. These appealed to my self-delusion that I'm a gal who appreciates exotic music. I was expecting no more than a type of new age background music over what was termed "natural sounds" i.e. birds chirping, ocean surf, and jungle rainstorms. What I got was eight CD's full of elevator music that sounded like it was recorded at the zoo. The style is similar to what Lawrence Welk did to Beatles' ballads in the '70's. There was about as much Africa in the African rhythms as the Partridge family covering James Brown. So, now what do I do with this collection of watered down instrumentals? Gifts. Yes, I know enough people with no taste in music who will be thrilled to get these trendy New Age CD's! A little 99-cent wrapping paper and bingo I'm off the hook for six gifts I really never wanted to buy in the first place. I won't try to pawn off the two I actually opened. I'll donate them to the library and get a receipt for the full price. I am not cheap, just practical.

Unfortunately, my inability to forgo bargains is not limited to the 99-cent bin. I cannot tell you how many times I've bought clothing simply because it was cheap that did not fit me properly. If it were too large I'd plan to take it in. If it was too small I'd swear I would lose that 20 pounds that's been hanging on to my hips and thighs like I'm going to need it in a famine. I have a periwinkle blazer to which I have never been able to match anything. I have a pair of olive pants in a shade that doesn't even look good with beige. There is no hope of ever finding another article of clothing in that color again because the formula was destroyed when it was found to cause emotional problems in guinea pigs.

I own more half outfits than anyone alive. I save them all in the hopes that one day the perfect ensemble will emerge when I buy yet another separate under $10 in yet another nauseating shade. I try to throw them out but then I would have to admit that I own only three outfits and I need to go shopping. It's a vicious cycle. So, instead I wear the ugly green pants with a white sweater and 99-cent accessories.

I can't resist a bargain because I am always broke and I am always broke because I can't resist a bargain. There should be a twelve-step program for people like me. First someone would tie me to a chair and make me look at photos of myself in all the frou-frou I buy off the clearance racks. Next, my friends would file in, one by one, and tell me that I never looked good in the Victorian drapery print jeans that I always imagined made me look "artsy." My mother would come in next begging me to dress like a grown-up and confessing that I'm an embarrassment when she runs into me in public… she may even hand me a generous gift certificate from Lord & Taylor. Then I would have to sit through hour after hour of videos taken at the homes of old women who could not resist the urge to buy garbage. This would be the horrifying ghost of things to come if I don't take the oath. These homes would be stacked with unopened bottles of bizarre shades of nail polish, expired Chia Pets, and towers of irregular panty hose in taupe and almost black. There would be 50% off Halloween costume rubber body parts strewn throughout the mountains of mismatched separates like a scene from a film called Hannibal Visits the Outlet Mall. After all that they'd take me home and I'd have to apologize to everyone to whom I've ever given a 99-cent gift. Slowly I'd heal and I may even be able to go shopping again and walk right by the clearance bins, head held high, lip trembling a little but strong in the knowledge that I kicked the habit and I can stay clean.

Until that program gets rolling, look for me in the back of the store, sorting through the taped up packages of pillowcases and hand towels with an almost perfect embroidered penguin or duck. I'll be there looking for the perfect bargain… looking for the 99-cent treasure at the bottom of the barrel.

I thought I had seen everything. While on vacation with an old boyfriend and his friends in North Carolina I was informed that we were going crabbing. The main objective of this endeavor was to catch live food and boil it until it was dead and thereby edible. I am not one who enjoys meeting my food before I eat it. However, I had never gone crabbing and I wanted to add it to my life experiences. Perhaps I can put it on my resume someday.

The first step in this event was to visit a local food store to purchase bait and a ball of string. This seemed pretty remedial in the world of food procurement. Bait turned out to be chicken wings. I was beginning to get a sense that something was terribly wrong. As a Buffalonian I recognized chicken wings as a highly edible food from anonymous chickens that I never had to meet. Why not simply eat the chicken wings? I kept this observation to myself so I wouldn't alienate my new friends.

After we purchased our bait we drove over to the sound side of the ocean vacation complex. The shallow brackish water was where we would find our prey. There were wooden docks with decorative gazebos at the far end that stretched out into the murky water. Ten of us marched out onto the dock with one pail and two crabbing nets. It was obvious to me that these people had done this before. We set up shop in the gazebo near the stairs that descended into the shallow water. Lengths of string were cut using a cigarette lighter. Everyone got a long length of string and a raw warm chicken wing. I was told to tie the string securely to the wing. I followed instructions and looked to the experts on placement and technique. Odd as it may seem, I had no previous experience tying a string to a chicken wing. I had tied up other meats for cooking purposes but that did not prepare me for this new adventure. I used a knot I learned in Girl Scouts before they gave me a dishonorable discharge for not minding the group leader. I followed instructions so that I would not shame my parents again by getting thrown out of my condo for not cooperating.

After securing the chicken wing to the string I was instructed to tie the other end to my wrist and toss the chicken appendage into the water. The technique involved slowly dragging the wing along the bottom of the sound in the hopes that a crab, whom did not know chicken was not indigenous to those waters, would decide it looked like lunch. The speculation was that the crabs were not very bright. That turned out to be quite true. Once the crab grabbed the wing there was a slight tug on the string as the excited crustacean tried to scurry away to his designated eating area. When you felt the tug you alerted the net person that you had a crab. The net person slipped the net under the crab that was holding the chicken wing and scooped both into the pail. This was all fine and dandy except that in many cases the crab was smaller than the wing thereby rendering the crab useless as food. This increased my concern about why we were not simply eating the chicken wings.

At one point there were three crabs in the bucket of water. They were fighting and confused. In a humanitarian gesture I suggested that we give them one of the chicken wings to keep them amused. I also told my friends that it would act as a kind of last meal. My friends became suspicious of my seriousness in the crabbing venture. I saw the same look in their eyes that I saw in my scoutmaster's right before she asked me to leave.

Sea gulls gathered on the mooring pylons. They were very interested in our efforts. I inquired why we didn't simply try to catch the sea gulls that seemed much larger and meatier looking than the crabs. When I wondered aloud what seagull tasted like the group answered in unison "chicken." The use of chicken to catch something that tasted like chicken was too bizarre to contemplate. I did not want to know how my friends knew about the taste of sea gull.

I had lots of time to think while I dragged my chicken wing along the water below the pier. While I looked down into the water I realized that a microscopic crab looked like a promising plump crab through the optical illusion created by the cloudy water. In a moment of panic I wondered what my thighs would look like from that perspective. I vowed never to swim anywhere where I could be viewed from above.

We collected a dozen blue crabs all living in harmony in the pail of water. Their calm almost meditative state was induced by the addition of the parting gift of a chicken wing. We were finally ready to give up our hunt. By this time our chicken wings looked like small remains of human floaters fished out the East River. I was no longer interested in eating them in that condition. We all untied our wings and tossed them into the sound. The sea gulls went wild and I'm sure they talked about this among themselves for weeks.

So what came next? If you guessed a crab feast you guessed wrong. My friends took a good look at the pathetic collection of puny crabs and dumped them back into the drink. All those crabs went home to their families with stories about how they had been abducted by aliens, kept in a cylindrical tank, observed for several hours and released. It's all in the perspective. The humans were disappointed by their empty bucket, the sea gulls got a delightful unexpected chicken dinner, and our friends the blue crabs got the adventure of a lifetime. And me… I got a one liner for my resume in the "special interests" section: Aquatic wildlife rescue team.

As a happily single woman my biggest fear is being looked upon as the neighborhood "cat lady." You know the type. Her husband dies or runs off with a blond barmaid he meets at happy hour or there never was a husband at all so she still believes married life might be cozy. She buys a cat or takes in a stray or some one feels sorry for her and gives her one as a gift. She takes to the cat immediately but because she craves a relationship in her own life she transfers this idea and her emotions onto her cat. She therefore, acquires another cat to keep the first one, let's call him Caesar, company. Caesar and Cleo get used to sharing a space, a bowl, a cat box and an owner. All of a sudden, everyone that knows this burgeoning "cat lady" knows that she's a push over. Anytime anyone knows of a cat in need it filters down to the "cat lady." A sob story is told and she shrugs her shoulders and says, "What's one more cat?" Before you know it she has 21 cats. There are multiple litter boxes, multiple bowls and all her expendable income goes for cat food, litter and vet bills. Humans no longer visit the "cat lady" because her house is crawling with cats. The neighborhood children notice she looks bent over from lack of sleep and stooping down to change litter boxes. Her black coat is multicolored with cat hair. She cannot afford new clothes and begins to look tattered. The children call her names and assume she is either a witch or a murderess who hides bodies in the basement and has a houseful of cats to mask the odor of rotting flesh… kids are very inventive. This is NOT the image I'm going for.

I am one of a growing population of gratefully single women who love solitude and independence. I love men too but I do not care to own one as they do not come with viable warrantees and it's much easier to rent. When a woman like me takes in a cat we are not looking for company… our children leave us the cat as a legacy or one independent feral cat will show up at our door and we'll grow fond of and feed him until the snow flies. He ends up curled up on the couch watching Animal Planet munching on kitty treats. Come to think of it, that's how my last few relationships began. Hum?

I am happy with one cat and he seems to be happy with me. However, my married cousin Kathy insists that I get a feline friend for George… I tell her that any cat that ends up in my apartment is going to learn the joys of solitude. In the meantime I leave the window open even when it starts to get cold so he can pine for the fiords. I've been leaving on PBS and scattering open books around the house hoping that he'll learn to read and be able to entertain himself. If he could read I could turn him on to Kafka and we could have stimulating conversation after our rigorous petting sessions. Get your mind out of the bestiality gutter, cowboy. Oh, here comes George now walking on my keyboard trying to write a rebuttal… "rlkglajpi;asfmgertdmfgm." I'm sure he means that sincerely. Next week, I teach him English.