Perhaps it’s because I’m a Boomer that I love long hair. No age-appropriate bob for this gal. And, while I wince with pity and sorrow when I see a comb-over – sweetheart, you’re fooling no one – ponytails on balding gents cause my heart to quicken.
Even in the garden, I encourage my green guys and dolls to grow lusher, longer, luminously, leggily more obstreperous until, same as my own, their coils knot and break off, begging for a trim.
My all grown up son used to scream in the barber’s chair. I don’t know if my green babies do. But, afterwards, they must be as relieved as I am. Who doesn’t relish space
