I love my little hairdresser.
Really, I do.
And I call her "little," because, well, she is a smallish person, but also because I've known her since she was knee-high to a duck's tail. And because she's several years younger than I am. And because, though she's about to celebrate her third wedding anniversary, I doubt I'll ever really think of her as an "adult," in much the same way that my siblings will probably always be "kids" in my eyes.
Oh, but she's great. She does a fantastic job on both my hair and Anna Marie's, and I'm such a doofus that never makes appointments six whole weeks in advance and she always squeezes me in when I call at the last minute.
But really, did she have to inform me that I had some "gray highlights" when I got my hair cut today?
And she said it in the nicest possible way - kind of like, "Aw, you've got gray highlights!"
Like they're cute or something.
People, I'm about to turn 32 in less than three weeks.
That moves me slowly through the "early 30s" territory and has me staring down the loaded end of "mid-30s."
Before you know it, I'll be in my "late 30s" and then my "early 40s" and then, well, it's anyone's guess what happens after that.
Looks like me and Miss Clarol are about to become real chummy.