7. His bum is way cuter (and smaller) than yours truly. This is usuallly a ‘pro,’ but today as I sit mindlessly inhaling

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Webpack 5 release notes, in the early days, Webpack’s aim was to allow running most Node.js modules in the browser. But, since then, the ecosystem has evolved a lot, and many modules are now written specifically for the Web. Because of that, the Webpack maintainers have decided to remove the automatic polyfills, which added (often) unnecessary bloat to our bundles.

I’ll be writing here every week. Please follow me and tell me things. To hang out even more, find me on Twitter, sign up for my newsletter, and listen to NPR’s TED Radio Hour.

Every night, the family and I went for a socially-distant swim at the house next door. I thought about how, possibly next summer, I wouldn’t have to worry about the chlorine turning my fake brown hair orange and could swim carefree underwater again. “Growing out your hair will make you look old,” advised the 70-year-old neighbor who generously let us use his pool, “Don’t do it.”

Well, that sealed the deal. Every time a man that age tells me what to do, I do the opposite. Even though I knew he was right. I’m in the media. The image I’ve always projected is fresh and high energy. In other words: young. It goes without saying that there are very few high-powered women role models with gray hair. Sure, Jane Fonda decided to go gray in 2020, but have you seen the amount of makeup she wears to counteract its aging effect? A recent fashion trend has women in their twenties dying their hair gray. Old head, strikingly young face. The contrast has impact. But a middle-aged face with the hair to match isn’t fashionable. It’s just dull reality. I’m seriously concerned that my hair will limit my job prospects. That sentence is so stupid but, while the situation for older women has improved, they are still mostly invisible in society. Irrelevant. The other day, out of the blue, I got an email from Google with stats on how many people had googled me, and their top growing queries. Number one? manoush zomorodi age. (Number two: manoush zamorodi; number three: manoush zomorodi nationality. These were less surprising.)

I asked one woman eating ice cream on a bench next to her white-haired husband how she was doing. She knew exactly what I was referring to. “Right now it looks awful when it’s not in a bun. But I’m gonna stick with it, even though I read it takes about two years,” she said. Clearly, she’s been doing the same Google searches I have. Her speckled brown and gray hair softly framed her face. At the back, a flaming artificial-red coil of hair was pinned in place.

People think intimacy is about lacy, red thongs from Victoria’s Secret (are they still in biz?), but it’s not. In her 1969 article in Psychology Today, Lori H. Gordon nailed it when she said, “Love is a feeling. Marriage, on the other hand, is a contract — an invisible contract.” Intimacy is based on our biological need for physical and emotional closeness. It is about showing your partner the most evil, vile, ugly, smelly, oozing sides of yourself and they still have to sleep next to you and smile over coffee. You can find that in Section 2.1.3.1a of the bylaws.

I’m an incredibly privileged person and, like many people with means and options, I’m trying to think about what I’m willing to give up in this world so that more people can have opportunities. One very small thing I can do is be a public person — a woman — with gray hair. I know there will be more women with gray, white, and silver hair in your life, and mine, two years from now. I want to imagine a future where these older women are visible… and not just to each other.

I’ve been really intimate this week with my husband as I left my Oprah Live-Your-Best-Life version of myself at the entrance of hell last week. Pandemic; election signs every frickin’ where; heated debates among everyone that should be muted except the people who should be doing them who had to be muted (crazy, right?); Dad in emergency room, hospice called; drove 12 hours in three days; slept on a hospital recliner with the soft sound of geriatric hallucinations playing in the background (so many horses to put in barns = exhausting). If I weren’t so depleted, I’d write a country song.

Look, I never purported to be a nice person, and this week I’ve been 1000 percent less so. I’m tired, physically spent, mentally drained, and I got no more fucks left to give. My hair hasn’t been done properly in seven months, my dog’s nails look better than mine, I’ve gained approximately 18 pounds in the last week (Hello, my friend stress eating), my toilet has pink stuff growing inside, and I am done. Guess who gets to see this hot, throbbing ball of sexy every day?

I’ll be writing here every week. Please follow me and tell me things. To hang out even more, find me on Twitter, sign up for my newsletter, and listen to NPR’s TED Radio Hour.

Who will I be if I’m suddenly treated a decade older this winter than I was in the spring? I’m not sure. Between the election, schools reopening, and financial instability, everyone is constantly reminding each other to take things one day at a time. But I’m also very much envisioning the future: the day my transformation is complete. When I chop off the dead ends. And today — at least at this moment — I feel quietly optimistic that I, alongside my #grombre sisters, will be able to look in the mirror and embrace this new, “real” self. And I wonder: What will the world even be like then? What will I be like? Will the pandemic be over? Will we have started fixing this janky nation?

Needless to say, I’ve been a veritable ball of laughs and love, and my husband is the lucky recipient. Don’t feel bad for him — he signed up for this WILLINGLY. This is actually one of those rare occasions when I can say, “It’s not you, it’s me,” but I won’t because where’s the fun in that? Instead, I’ll just find reasons for him to annoy me so I can be distracted from calls from the hospice nurse, all the Trump signs in my line of sight (one is too many and there are WAY more than that), and the pile of laundry that is currently overtaking my closet. It really isn’t him. If Mother Teresa were lying next to me, I’d probably ask her if she washed her feet before getting into bed and tell her to feel free to use some of the wrinkle cream on the vanity.

8. Every time he does anything, he makes it known. “Hey, babe. I emptied the dishwasher.” “Hey, babe. Just took Dozer for a walk. He pee’d and pooped.” “Hey, boo. I just took the trash out.”

When I first pitched this article in September, two (female) editors declined. Lockdown had ended; women were returning to salons. They felt that the gray-roots phase of the pandemic was coming to an end. That’s not true. Our contingent is just smaller, and more hardcore. I lock eyes all the time with women who, like me, have decided to ride this out. It’s easy to recognize us: We all have exactly six-eight inches of roots. We are part of a secret but very visible sorority, with no motivational comments cheering us to “embrace our power” as we walk down the street. Some of us are happy to hide behind our masks. Others don’t give a shit. But I’m certain we’re experiencing the days and weeks differently, pacing ourselves.

I vacillate between hating what I see in the mirror and being profoundly curious about my transformation. Do I look like a Persian Bonnie Raitt? I’m not sure I would have had the gumption to go through this process were it not for the pandemic and now, being part of this small feminist gray movement. Yes, some of these women will go back to the bottle and looking like a version of their younger selves. That consistency is indeed very comforting. But the world is in a very uncomfortable place. Consistency has gone out the window.