So, as you may know, I'm turning F-O-R-T-Y this December. Yes, the big one. Over the hill. The second half of life. The backside of youth.
Forty is the new twenty.
Forty and fabulous.
40... the party continues.
Life begins at forty.
However you want to look at it, right?
I want to look forty square in the face and have it run home screaming to its mama about how I'm a mean bully who beat it up.
I want to be in better shape than ever before.
I want to run a marathon or do a triathlon.
Only I'm not really that beast. That's a phrase from my fourteen year old nephew, btw. I kinda like it. Since I'm not all "that beast", I've decided to grow my hair out. Really long and wild and curly like the rock star that I am in my head. And maybe blond and red. Or maybe blond and black. Or black and pink. Or black and blue. Or blond and mahogany. Or just blond. The options are only limited by my imagination (and Mr. Incredible's wallet). Since Mr. Incredible has all but nixed the idea of me getting my belly button pierced (wah) and I can't quite decide how to fix my tattoo yet, hair is all I gots to work with (and my poor grammar... colloquial... don't hate...).
So, girls, it's my last hair-rah. When I'm tempted to cut it off, please preempt me and remind me that "women of a certain age can't wear their hair down to the middle of their backs because it's aging." Because that "women of a certain age thing" just isn't going to work for me. Women of a certain age love their husbands, take care of their children, and cherish their friendships. This woman of an almost certain age is going to rock long hair one last time. And when I say rock, I mean ROCK! With big hoops and a biker vest. I may even wear a feather when it's all grown out and looking fantabulous... and I happen to know where I can get one with my name on it.