The second of my biannual haircuts is scheduled for tomorrow and I am so very excited. This year's ups and downs beat the pulp out of my hairdo, starting with the ends. They're scratchy on my otherwise poker-straight, shiny hair--a bunched-up ponytail has me itching in no time. They're so bad I had considered chopping my hair shirt into a smart, below-the-ear flip like I had when Rachel was a baby (loved that haircut). But I'm not ready for the big change yet: the avenue to the elderly popcorn ball head.

I'm bad about knowing what I look like. When people say my daughter looks like me I have to look at her to see what I look like beyond a mirror staring back at me. Also, I have an old picture of myself (from the 90's) looking depressed, of course, with medium-long hair. I like the boldness such much (watched Casablanca again) hair makes me look like I have--I want to continue to have talking hair.

I do not give myself completely to the wind like I did back then. Nor do I dig a hole to crawl in for protection from same wind. Nope. Not no more. The pic had hair I didn't know was mine at the time.

So, today's generation of that old big hair tucks nicely behind my ears to reveal sober eyes and contentment in this skin. It says I am sexy and healthy (whether I'm living up to such claims or not). I think it says I have the potential for patience, too. And it definitely says it must be pretty cool being me.