Counting down to Funky 55

I like to celebrate big milestones.  The older I get the more I realize that opportunities in life are waning so I better make the most of them.  On my 50th birthday, I decided to have some real fun with my hair.  I went beyond the typical hair colors of black or red and went bleached blonde.  Well, at least that was the plan.  Because of the cheap black die in my hair it didn't lift out entirely and left behind shades of orange and yellow.  But you know what?  I ran with with it.  I called it and raised the ante -- I added bright punk colors to the front. I was styling! Or so I thought.  In the streets, person after person complimented me on my hair and wanted to know who did it. I was always happy to say I did it myself.  However, if I went in a beauty shop for hair supplies, the professional hair girls would gasp and slip me cards and say things like "honey, I can fix that for you, here's my card, give me a call."  It was really funny.  At a younger age I might that might have given me a complex but when I was strolling down Bourbon Street in New Orleans and two drag queens came up and began going on about my hair, well, I was really proud of it then because to me drag queens really know their stuff when it comes to make up, hair and costuming.

After this I decided to get a bit bolder and tint it purple. I was going for a vibrant neon sort of thing but I got a deep dark purple instead. I was stunned but thought, hey, I will make myself roll with this. I can do this.  And so I did for all of three days or so until the military police followed me on base all the way up to my garage and then sat and glared at me.

Apparently, such shocking displays of hair color is not considered in good taste in the military and so, to save face for my husband, I lifted the purple back out of it. I stuck with the blondish orange with tweaks of colored bangs up until my father's final days preceding his death and funeral.  When last I saw him he wasn't amused with my teen antics he called it. Good old Dad.  But he sure was glad to see me. I will always remember him jumping up and shuffling across the room to hug me in a bear grip and him burying his face in my shoulder and telling me he thought he would never see me again.  It should have registered to me right then that he had accepted that his battle with cancer was lost.  He died less than 90 days later with most of that time being bed ridden as his appetite waned and his body wasted to nothing more than a shell.  I certainly wasn't ready for the shell of a man that he was when they called me home to say my goodbyes.

In tribute to life and daring and boldness, I am doing a count down of 55 days of Funky until my 55th birthday.  I will be taking my clothes and putting them together in new and fun ways.  I definitely am not a wall flower and don't mind standing out in a crowd.  I will post a photo daily of me and my funky fashion.  I hope you enjoy my journey to age 55.

Bright Blessings and Blessed Be!
Rayven Michaels