Getting a haircut is a once a year job for me, mainly because it's so expensive and I really don't care that much - a quick hack of the fringe with the kitchen scissors suffices. I'd forgotten how I hate the whole process, the hair wash was nice and the head massage dreamy but then having to sit in front of myself for over an hour was awful. I can't look at me, I don't recognise the older me staring back. The one with the bags under her eyes, the wrinkles, deep grooves if I smile and grey, sallow skin. I looked down at the floor only to be politely told to keep my head up, so I settled on shutting my eyes, feigning tiredness and listened the the banal talk of the salon.
I suppose I need to learn to love my wrinkles and creases, the plum-red thread veins and patchy brown hands. I need to embrace the grey and not cover it, be proud I've made it this far with many a story to tell - and my body has been an excellent and most faithful vehicle enabling that, for which I am very grateful.