Which is a roundabout way of saying that I submitted to the barber's scythe today. Every time I go, the 19-year old inside me screams blue murder. Even as a teen, I knew that time and circumstance changes one's perspective, and wondered what the older me would make of the younger one, and vice versa.
In the case of hair, my inner teen is in mourning. It was OK to have a mane of jet-black hair most of the way down my back when I had the build of an anorexic whippet and wore only black. Whether or not it suited me I have no idea, but it was a justified reaction against year's of my mother's brutal, and distinctly unartistic basin haircuts. All six of us - regardless of gender - received the same utilitarian treatment. For someone trained in surgery, she was remarkably clumsy with the scissors too - my ears were almost Spock-shaped by the time I was 18.
As the years and pounds accumulated, the hair got shorter, thinner and less distributed: I've seen the balding pony-tailed future and its name is Rossi. By now, I've got a position on hairstyles: I'm agin 'em. These days I just want some hair, mostly on my head, to avoid sunburn. But as a marker of passing time, my enlarging forehead is a fine sundial for the progress of the decades.
(The quotation is from Pope's 'The Rape of the Lock': it's very good).