Looking Your Age.
And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?
The other day I read this article by Medium peep Marie A Bailey about this monumental nonsense that our Boomer generation grew up with -- how after thirty, short hair was a no-no. After sixty, according to some fashion police, you don’t wear leggings (someone tell the billions upon billions of women of ALL ages that idiocy). After forty or fifty or sixty or seventy or eighty, well, frankly,
Go fuck yourself.
I am beyond sick and tired of seeing breathless pieces by stupid people about what’s appropriate for anyone at any point. I wrote a few myself and later regretted it, because they were stupid. Happy to admit.
Because I see purple hair on my various caregivers, tiny pieces of tinsel woven into the greying strands of my nearly seventy-year-old acupuncturist, and damned near everyone I know who is even within shouting distance of my 67 years could give less than a rat’s ass about What’s. Fucking. Age. Appropriate.
That’s why I liked Marie’s article. Why should she care? Precisely.
