How is it Friday again? I can’t keep up. It’s outrageous, the speed at which time dares to move.
Mamalode. I wrote and this piece is so very close to my heart … if you have a minute, visit and let them know if you like it:
Matt walked in the door late that night, after dinner and bedtime. The kids were already quiet upstairs with their books and their music. I washed dishes, watching my reflection in the huge picture window above the sink. My other self floated in the blackness, pale and years younger with sad dark eyes. I wondered how I would do it tomorrow.
He wrapped me in his arms, still in his big brown work coat, and I dissolved into sobs I didn’t know I was holding back. … two hearts, two stones at Mamalode.
And, in other news, I haven’t cut my hair in seven years and yesterday, I just … went for it. Had it hacked off. Look at me! I can change! I can adjust! I am not afraid to let the next part of my life happen. Fine, I’m a little afraid. Tell me that you like it.
Here’s a recent photo of my hair as it has looked for seven or eight years (when it looks okay; and isn’t in a bun; and doesn’t have gross kid scrum in it somewhere).
The pictures that I showed my stellar hair dresser, Sarah, yesterday. (GULP! Am I crazy?)
Keep in mind that these women are, how do you say it? Unfairly stunning.
Sarah was so encouraging and with a little bit of hand-holding on Facebook … (drum roll) …
It’s a little new and a little strange, but I love it. Until I have to do it on Tuesday and then I may cry, but we’ll see. I am improving with the hot iron. Here’s a tip for moms of girls: For the LOVE OF GOD, women, teach them to use a hot iron before they are 39. As I walked out of the salon, Sarah said: “You look so professional. You know what you look like? A writer.” Well, okay then. Maybe I am.