Kodachrome.

I keep telling myself to carry a camera around with me, so at a moment's notice I can take whatever interesting or unusual (read: stupid) thing I happen to come across. Today, when I got my hair cut, it was one of those days. Where was that little Canon when I needed it, when I looked down at the black smock, and saw all of that white hair? Where the hell did that come from? There was an elderly woman in chair before me -- it must be hers, right?

Actually, I don't know why this surprised me; my hair's been getting gray for years now. Yet every time I go to the salon (yeah, I call it a salon, so?) I'm stunned. I'm also surprised every time a season ends, as in, "I can't believe it's fall already," in spite of the fact that I'm on -- what it is now? -- my 45th autumn? I really need to get over it, I realize.

Anyway, I didn't have my camera, so I can't show you the salt-and-pepper carnage the lay in clumps on my smock this afternoon. Here's the closest approximation I can offer, using the tried-and-true, hold-my-arms-out and take-my-own-pic method:


I still have a pretty good head of hair on me, so I shouldn't complain. I will though, I will complain, because I do it so well. And no, that is not a nascent bald spot -- the camera is just at a funky angle. So shut up.

Next time: Love handles!