I’m not the most vain woman I know, truly. I have little interest in fashion, hence my “I shop the sales at Old Navy” look. Manicures and pedicures are for special occasions only, and waxing is a necessity here in south Florida rather than a vain luxury. I frequently go without makeup and I prefer sunscreen and a hat to Botox (for the moment). But I do highlight my hair. It started when I was around twenty-one, the bright blonde of my childhood and adolescence having faded to a goldish/mousy light brown. I’ve tried going darker through the years, but I always end up streaky blonde again. I just feel blonde inside, I guess, and it has nothing to do with flashiness or being noticed. It has to do with who I see in pictures from my lifetime and who I see in the mirror. I want to still be the same person, regardless of what age and hormonal changes have done to my hair.

But my highlight appointments, that one and a half hours every six to eight weeks, have been overrun. They’ve been pushed back, rescheduled, and GASP, even cancelled lately, due to one pesky culprit–weekend soccer.