“Mommy, you look young,” said my smiling 8 year old sticking his head over the car seat.
“I do?”
I knew getting my hair chopped was the right thing.
“Yeah, without your glasses you look about 24.”
“Twenty four? Do I really, my most favorite child of the moment?”
“Yeah — well, you look 24 with wrinkly skin.”
* * *
Every child said my hair looked good.
My husband said he liked it too – but he’d better since he was the one who’s been mercilessly lobbying that I cut it for weeks.
“You look more professional. Like a writer,” was his comment.
“What did I look like before?”
I will refrain from his exact wording but the image that came to mind was of a female Ernest Hemingway who had stumbled down the aisle way too many times.
Which I thought an accurate portrait of the angst-riden, gut-wrenching novelist that I am. (Well, without the novelist part.)
So 24? At 24, I was just finishing graduate school and realizing I didn’t want to practice law.
The farthest I’d run in my life was about four miles.
I was with my Johnny and my hair probably was the length that it is right now.
I might go shorter next time.
What about you? Long, short or are you like me — just depends on the mood?
I fell for the wear-black-leggings-to-workout-in trick. 
