You can't be 50 in Hollywood

I had been living in New York for several years, writing young adult novels. But I wanted to move to Los Angeles. I needed a change of scenery, and I wanted to try screenwriting.

A friend connected me to a guy who had spent several years in L.A. pursuing film and TV writing. I called the guy and told him my plan.

The hair dye felt like it was burning my scalp. After I rinsed it out, my whole head glowed. Did it make me look younger? I guess it did. But it also made me look like a clown.

He said: “How old are you?”

I said 49.

He said, “That’s too old. You can’t be 50 in Hollywood. You’ll need to lie about your age.”

Then he asked me if I had gray hair. I said I did. He said I would need to dye it.

I said, “But George Clooney has gray hair. Doesn’t it look distinguished?”

He said I would definitely want to dye it. “Everyone dyes their hair in L.A. Get a good hairdresser.”

*******

He continued relating his experiences. He listed the dangers of Hollywood. They steal your ideas. They lie. They pretend to be your friend. I would need a good lawyer, and a manager, and an agent.

Most of this I already knew. But the “you can’t be 50 in Hollywood” part: I hadn’t heard that before.

Reelin' In the Years

After we hung up, I thought about the age problem. I had already “adjusted” my age once while I was writing young adult novels.

I did this after attending a book festival, where I saw that all the other young adult authors were generally in their 20s and 30s. I was at least a decade older than most of them.

So I shaved five years off my Facebook age. Just in case anybody looked. And then I did the same thing when I filled out the publicity questionnaires for my publisher.

But the age problem got worse when I arrived in L.A. The first screenwriter I met with was 24 and looked like he was in high school. When I got home from that meeting, I went on Facebook and shaved three more years off my birthday.

When I did this, a little notice popped up, informing me that this would be the last time I would be allowed to change my birthday on Facebook.

So now, I was 41 according to Facebook, 44 according to my New York publisher, and 49 according to my driver’s license and the IRS.

This was a lot to keep track of. It made for some awkward moments on first dates.

Gray matters

It didn’t take long to realize that in Hollywood — where lying is considered “self-care” — what people really judged you on was your looks.

So then I considered my appearance. My hair was pretty gray. Should I try dyeing it?

I went to Ralphs and bought a box of Clairol Nice'n Easy hair dye. I went for espresso brown, which seemed closest to my original hair color.

I set up shop in my bathroom. I put on the gloves and followed the instructions on the box, mixing the chemicals and smearing them onto my head. It was a messy business.

The hair dye felt like it was burning my scalp. After I rinsed it out, my whole head glowed. Did it make me look younger? I guess it did. But it also made me look like a clown.

*******

I flew back to New York soon after, and a female friend immediately noticed the change. She said: “It’s true what they say; you look 10 years younger!”

That was nice to hear. But I was alarmed that she noticed it instantly. From 50 feet away.

Another friend didn’t believe me when I told her it was dyed. She had to look closer and touch it until she saw that I was telling the truth.

I was still trying to get used to it myself. Every time I saw my reflection, I startled myself. Who’s that guy with the dye job?

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Pro tips

Back in L.A., I spotted a sign in a hair salon near my apartment: “Dye and Haircut $80.” Maybe this was the solution: getting your hair dyed by a professional.

I would like to say this was a luxurious, pampering experience. It was not. The hairdresser roughed me up pretty good. And then I had to sit there for 40 minutes, in sight of people walking by the window, with a giant plastic covering over me and my thinning hair wrapped in tin foil.

And then, after all that, it looked no different from the Clairol dye job I had given myself for $9.99!

*******

Still, I stuck with it, re-dyeing it every six weeks — like it said on the box — for most of a year.

During this time, I kept a watchful eye out for other men with dyed hair. I was definitely not alone. At the beach, you would see aging “surfer dads” with dyed blonde hair and a skateboard under their arms. It wasn’t a terrible look. As long as you wore Vans and board shorts.

And of course, men who were on TV or acted in movies always dyed their hair. I’d see these men everywhere. Or I’d see guests on late-night talk shows who looked like they had just had it done an hour before. Their hair had that blurry, fresh-dye glow.

I became skilled at spotting dye jobs on either sex. I hadn’t realized how many women dyed their hair: basically all of them, after about 30.

The good news was that nobody thought less of a man for dyeing his hair. This was Los Angeles. Dyeing your hair meant you had a job.

All is vanity

This wasn’t the case on the East Coast. New York City was the land of the silver fox. Being a well-dressed, gray-haired, 50-year-old male was highly desirable. It meant you were rich!

In fact, it was in New York that a couple of female friends intervened and informed me that the hair-dye thing wasn’t working. I looked better being gray.

After that, my vanity took over, and when I returned to L.A., I shaved my head and released myself back into middle age.

Once I let myself go gray again, another Los Angeles acquaintance told me she thought I looked much better. She said the dye job made me look untrustworthy, like a used-car salesman.

*******

So that was a relief. But the real relief didn’t come until many years later, when I retired from writing and went back home to Portland and returned to total normalcy.

In retirement, I didn’t have to be young; I didn’t have to be cool. I could just be an old, gray-haired person like everybody else.

Though on Facebook — thanks to its birthday-changing restrictions — I remain a slightly younger and livelier version of myself.