rolanni | In which Rolanni is vain but not glorious

There are some specific things that bug me about getting older. The idea that some folks seem to have fixed in their brains that, because my hair is grey, I'm a Nice Grandmotherly Lady is one of those things. News flash: I am not a Nice Lady, grandmotherly or otherwise. Even when my hair was brown and long enough to strangle you with, I was not a nice lady. In fact, I may be Even Less Nice now, because I have a lot of work to do, here, and you're standing in my light.

Among the other things that bug me is clothes. Why are all the women's clothes in the United States made for slyph-like thirteen year olds? No, wait, that's always been the case; that's why I've been wearing mens clothes for the last 35 years.

The newest thing to irritate me, though, is hair. After I got rid of the ninja hair, I went to wash-and-wear hair, which suited me fine. Lately, though, I can't seem to get me a haircut that lasts more than two weeks without going funny. You know what I mean -- wings developing out the side, or spikes standing up at the part. Now, granted, for many years my hair was cut by a woman who was a wizard with her scissors, but who lately and sadly has been overcome by Family Difficulties, forcing me to find someone else to cut my hair. This has led to the discovery that, while there are a lot of people in Maine who cut hair, there apparently aren't that many who cut hair well.

Sigh. I really do need a haircut in the worst way, but I can't actually bring myself to get the thing done. If we lived in a warmer part of the world, I'd seriously consider shaving my head. As it is, I could grow it again, and braid it, but even at the rate my hair grows, we're some months from that.

Maybe a snood? That might work.

In other, less cranky, news, it's still snowing here at the Cat Farm -- and I think it's time for me to clear the door again.