Retirement.

As a nine year old that seemed as foreign as eating octopus for dinner.

I’m linking up with MamaKat and choosing prompt number  1.)  Share a story from fourth grade.

I was trying to remember fourth grade.

I remembered where Mrs. Dollar’s classroom was in the framework of Audubon Park Elementary.

I remembered where my desk was in that classroom.

That’s about it. With one notable exception that happened on the last day of school.

Mrs. Dollar was retiring. Someone (probably some room mom) had us raise money to buy her a rose for every year.

Roses. What’s the big deal?

Well, when they arrived  — the one thing I remember (of the entire year) is how her face softened into absolute joy when she saw that bouquet.

Her creased face looked less agitated and pleased with the whole ragtag lot of us.

She carried them outside and we all pointed our little Instamatics with no flashbulbs (for everyone brought a camera for the last day) at her smiling ear-to-ear face holding that spray of 40 long stems.

Mrs. Dollar with her glasses forever hanging on a chain around her neck holding those roses in the grassy area between the fourth grade hall and the library. In Florida, the hallways were all open. At least back then in the ancient of times.

We made her happy.

That’s what I remember.

What about you?

Any recollection of 4th grade?”

Why did I wait so long to cut it off?

As I write this I sit waiting for my son’s hair to be cut surrounded by the sounds of women talking, the smell of hair potions and the whoosh of hair dryers.

Today in the mail I received an article from this week’s New York Times Magazine from an Atlanta friend. The note with it read…

"Jamie ~ Instantly thought of you while reading this!"

I loved reading it. (The note and the feature)

A few days out of cutting my hair, reading Joyce Maynard’s thoughts got me to thinking.

Why did it take me so long?

I didn’t go as short as the author (but if I was writing an article for the NYTimes I might have) but I completely got her fears.

Men friends giving her baffled looks upon announcing her plans. “My knees may ache and my brow might appear lined (at least when the Botox wears off), but so long as my hair hung past my shoulders, as it had when I was young, I could still believe that some aspect of the girl I was at 18 still resided in my 58-year-old body.”

The more I analyzed the cutting hair conundrum, the more complex the puzzle became. Much more so than could be pieced together into a whole image on one rainy weekend at the beach.

I knew already it wasn’t the “long hair is sexy” thing. Not that I don’t think long hair is sexy, I knew in my head and saw in the mirror my “long hair for the sake of being sexy” days were behind me.

So why hadn’t I chopped it long before?

Warmth. That is honest. I love being wrapped with hair when it’s cold. But warmth wasn’t enough reason for me looking woefully out of style.

It was the point Maynard touched on in her feature. Youth. The young girl in me always wore her hair longer. What do you mean it doesn’t work anymore?

Yes. Just like my knees and the ever-deepening facial parenthesis emphasizing my mouth, my hair betrayed me.

Still thick – its graying texture hanging from my lackluster skin tone looked so very average.

And here’s the kicker.

It only can go from average to rotten.

I think that is the long and short of it. Long hair on me is never going to look like it did 20 years ago because I will never look like that 28.75 year old again.

Pooper.

At least I figured it out. Not to say I ever won’t have it long again (because I am the stubborn sort), in spite of the fact I’d probably wear it up all the time.

I’m really okay with it.

Aging is so hip surprising I never tried it before.

hmm.