My hair is, apparently, aging more quickly than the rest of my body, as if it were on it's own little planet where the sun is circling around ten times as fast as the normal earth. And this is driving me bananas.
My hair used to have it's own little wave, enough that I could just throw a headband in wet hair and end up with something fairly presentable. Very convenient during sheep showing and camping season. This was really really great for someone who, we have previously established, cannot really (a) be bothered too much with gussying herself up; (b) is lazy; (c) doesn't have much extra time and knitting is more of a priority. Take your pick.
(OK, so he does look younger than me. But he isn't.)
In the last few months, my hair has been demanding my notice as it refuses to perform its little headband trick and has decided to forego the curl altogether. After the comment by the optometrist a few weeks back about my advanced age, I decided that action had to be taken (and I am so timely)! I threw myself onto the mercy of a new hairdresser, and here is the result:
So different that my own middle son did not recognize me, even though he was curious about that lady sitting next to dad on those very uncomfortable school gym bleachers, cheering every time he made a basket in his rec basketball game. As if any stranger would wander into a middle school rec game and cheer for his mad basketball skills.